


Easy to Find

by toodelicatee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Fighting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Slow Burn, Tragedy, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25805110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toodelicatee/pseuds/toodelicatee
Summary: A chance encounter re-introduces the intensely complex Marianne back into Sherlock's life. She was the small flower that blossomed amid the lonely abyss of his childhood, and now she's moving into Baker Street.The connection between the two grows even stronger (and stranger) than it was during their youth, and takes many unexpected turns. What becomes clear to all is that something about Sherlock and Marianne's bond is fated... but not necessarily for happiness. Darkness seems to be clutching at their coat-tails, no matter where they turn. Tragedy lurks around every corner. Can they outrun it?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 26





	1. Marianne

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the middle of writing a Sherlock/OC fic called Dimensions, but I really just wasn't enjoying the direction I was going with it, so I do sincerely apologise for taking that down. I thought I would try and re-write according to where I really want the story to go. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> The song for this chapter is La Lune by Billie Marten.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the intensely fey Marianne Gleeson - an old friend of Sherlock's, and someone he hasn't let himself think about for over 13 years. What happens when she one day winds up at Baker Street, looking for a place to stay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is something you enjoy or have any feedback, please let me know in the comments. I'm eager to post more of this story. It's going to be a long journey with a lot of darkness and tragedy, but hopefully a lot of light and love in there too.
> 
> This chapter takes place shortly after the events of The Great Game (S1 E3)
> 
> The song for this chapter is: La Lune by Billie Marten

_I'm good at hiding in the dead and grey_

_But time after time I've been people I'm not_

**\- Billie Marten, La Lune**

X

Marianne looked carefully into the mirror. It seemed stupid, putting on all this make-up. She rarely wore make up. She felt she didn't have the time to learn how to do it properly, and she hated doing things half-hearted, or wrong.

She was wearing a black and white polka dot dress, with a purple corduroy jacket in case it got cold on the walk home. She put in the pearl ear-rings that had once belonged to her mother. She thought pearls tended to look tacky, but she was missing her mother especially today, and wanted to feel close to her through these ear-rings.

It was probably best not to go over the top with the make-up, she decided in the end, since she planned on getting quite drunk tonight, and would end up sleeping in whatever make-up she put on now. Not sober enough to wash her face later. Marianne applied foundation, powder and pink blusher to give her face some rosy colour. For a final touch, she drew eyeliner in wings on both eyes, along with a matte lipstick that matched her coat.

'You ready?' 

That was her boyfriend - David. Or friend. They didn't use the words boyfriend or girlfriend to describe each other, though they fucked most nights. He was much older than she was. She never liked to sleep with people her own age mainly because she found them too needy. They were overly interested in commitment, and she wanted the freedom of being able to sleep with whoever, whenever. Boys her age - she was twenty-six - were possessive in their need to hold exclusivity over a woman. She didn't want to feel tied down to a man she didn't even respect, let alone love. Older men, however, like David - who was in his fifties - were never interested in commitment. They were willing to fuck her and not obsess over whether she was the ideal mother for their children. 

David was tall, his hair was greying and hung fashionably to his shoulders. He had strong muscles but a small, soft stomach, and he did the things she asked in bed. That was another thing she liked about older men. They were willing to experiment. The guys her age looked at her like she was insane when she asked them to hit her or spit on her while they came. 

'You look gorgeous, Marianne,' David said, not really looking at her. She liked that he said that without looking. It made her feel like she had something to work towards. She had to be better if she wanted his attention. He was staring at himself in the mirror in her hallway.

She had told him not to get used to coming over to this apartment because she would be giving it up soon. She could no longer afford the rent; the cafe she worked at part-time let her go last week. While she was also working on her PHD, the funding from that alone was not enough money to live off. She would probably end up finding some damp-ridden bedsit on the outskirts, spending a fortune having to commute.

'Are you sure people won't mind me being there tonight?' She asked tentatively, having already asked this a dozen times today. They were going to some kind of party at Scotland Yard to celebrate a new division. David, being a crime journalist, had been invited.

'No, and anyway, who gives a shit?' David was American, from Ohio, and she loved the way he pronounced certain words. She loved the way he said babe. 'I want them to see what kind of girl I've got.' He winked at her.

'You haven't _got_ me.'

'You know what I mean. Don't start the feminist lecture now right before we go.'

He never liked her to talk about things like feminism; he said it was not compatible with her submissive sexual nature. She thought that was ridiculous. She could elect to be submissive, and still care about equality.

'I wasn't starting anything.' She placated him and took her scarf from the peg by the door.

'You won't need a scarf. It's not that cold,' he told her and she put the scarf back where it had been hanging.

To observers of their relationship, it might seem that he was ordering her around, but that wasn't necessarily the case. She simply didn't enjoy making decisions, whether they were significant, or small, like putting on a scarf. She didn't like the import of being a human being. Marianne regularly felt she made too many mistakes and was mostly unworthy of responsibility. She had told him this when they first started screwing and he promised her he would make her decisions for her. This was part of their mutual agreement, though it mostly played out during sex. She would tell him every time 'you can do anything you want to me' and he would say 'I know' and then proceed to do anything he wanted. She was not in any way adverse to this. She enjoyed it. This was the only way she had ever know how to have sex, by submitting.

X

As they got out of the cab, she felt the cool September breeze. He was perhaps wrong about her not needing the scarf. She announced that she was cold and he said she would warm up when they got inside. He didn't offer her his coat, which was an artsy mohair cardigan.

David was an artsy type, despite being a journalist. He listened to American folk bands and criticised the use of synthesizers in modern pop music. He complained if there were bubbles on the top of his coffee because it meant the barista had burnt the beans, something like that. And he wore horn-rimmed glasses. The first time he ever came inside her, he quoted Nietzsche afterwards. It seemed these were the types of men that were always falling for her. They complained about their mothers and ex-wives a lot, and with such vitriol it was clear there was a lot of misogyny deep down in them that she only sometimes called out. Maybe that made her weak. In fact, she thought, it definitely made her weak. She thought that of herself most of the time - a weak person.

David said she was badly postured a few weeks ago. Not physical posturing, but psychological posturing. He said she was far too open with people, too vulnerable. _You let everything inside you_ , those were his words. She had asked what he meant by that, and he said she lacked any kind of mask. She was too fully herself. This was not meant to be a compliment, but she thanked him anyway. 

'It's all that hippy-dippy stuff you're into,' he had criticised. 'It's made you too gentle. The world will break you in two one day, Marianne.'

The hippy-dippy stuff he was referring to - her fervid, almost obsessive interest in spirituality.

She had been interested in the potential of a spirit world since she was just a young girl. She had never known her mother, who died shortly after she was born, but had somehow always missed her. Longed for her. She attributed this to a spiritual connection difficult to define, and spent her whole life involved in all things fey and mystical. She visited psychics, went to seances. She used dream-catchers, went to all sorts of churches and holy places. Her PHD was actually focusing on the differences between representations of both rebirth and reincarnation in modern society.

David said it was all just wish-fulfilment and she needed to grow up, but secretly she could sense that he liked it about her. It made her unfathomable to him, and so he was always coming back for more - to try and fathom her. Because while she did attempt to be constantly open to everyone she spoke to, there was still a part of her that she kept to herself, like a secret pool of darkness inside, as though her real self were a seed that she was trying to hide until someone came along who she was comfortable being around, and then she would let it blossom. She would come into her true self then, she anticipated. She also anticipated it would be a while before that ever happened.

They stepped into the warmth of the building and were immediately greeted by a man serving drinks on a rounded tray high above his head. Marianne took a glass of what she thought was champagne, but she tasted it and knew instantly that it was prosecco. She thought herself chiefly down-to-earth, but when it came to alcohol, she knew what was good and what was bad. She adored wine and beer, but only the good kind, and knew instantly when something was cheap and nasty. This was possibly the only snobbish thing about her. But one thing was clear to her, she couldn't drink this prosecco. She asked David if there were more drinks and he rolled his eyes, already annoyed. He told her to just enjoy that, so she did. She drank it all in one go and picked up another glass. She did plan on getting drunk tonight, anyway. Why? Well, what else was there to do? She had been feeling terribly numb recently. Getting black out drunk always changed that, allowed her to feel things for a while.

X

A couple of hours later, Marianne was drunk. Not _too_ drunk, but suitably so. It was only eight o'clock. She could feel her cheeks with rosy heat in them, and her limbs felt looser. She had danced a bit to some pop music, had kissed David a lot. He had shrugged her off to begin with, told her to get a glass of water. But by now he was also a little tipsy, and he seemed to enjoy her attention.

Her friends consistently told her David was bad for her, and they were half-correct. When her friend Mary had met him, and Mary was a bit older than Marianne - much wiser, she'd said he was a chauvinistic pig. She declared how Marianne deserved better; Mary had said this to his face. He had simply shrugged.

He wasn't a good or wholesome man by any stretch, and yes, he treated her unkindly sometimes. But he was six foot four and handsome. He was middle-aged and that guaranteed both experience and gall. Her friends' partner's were all small and meek. She would rather have someone like David, who was wild in bed, more or less without conscience, and smelled of musk and Armani aftershave - she'd rather him any day than a nerdy five foot eight 'nice guy' who didn't shower, knew nothing except the missionary position and held conspiracy theories about the moon landing.

While she searched for the man with the prosecco, she bumped right into DI Lestrade.

'Oh, hello, Marianne,' he said. He sounded sober.

She knew Greg only through events she'd attended with David. The two men weren't friends or anything; in fact she got the impression that Greg didn't like David much. But _she_ got along well with Greg. She was aware of the fact he was attracted to her, and played into it a little bit. She didn't have any attraction towards him personally, but she enjoyed the feeling of being endearing to men. She knew that was probably in some sense problematic, but cared less about that.

'Hello, Greg!' She exclaimed warmly, smiling at him.

She had a soft and breathy voice, and it was half deliberate. It made her feel sexier than she knew she was.

'You look great.' He nodded at her outfit.

'Thanks, and you too.'

'How are you finding this... _party_ \- if you can even call it a party?'

'I think I'm only enjoying it because...' she signalled at her empty glass, 'the free drink.'

He snorted. 'Can't enjoy that myself, I'm afraid. I'm driving. Have to drop some files off somewhere.' He signalled at the paper under his arm. 'Anyway, how have you been?'

Maybe this was the bad psychological posturing David mentioned, but when asked questions, Marianne always answered honestly and transparently. Some people found this weird intensity off-putting. Others were pulled in by it, enraptured. She was definitely a marmite sort of person; you either loved her company or you were totally freaked out by it and avoided her altogether.

'Well, not too great, I'm losing the small job I have at the cafe. I still have money from my PHD funding, but I need to look for somewhere cheaper to live now. Almost definitely. Or maybe just get another side-job. I don't know. That latter option could take a while with today's job market.' She shrugged, exaggeratedly because of her intoxication. 'Drink away the sorrows, anyway.' She said, taking a glass from the man with the tray, who was walking past at that exact moment.

'Wait a minute, this might be a very fortuitous meeting for you, then.'

'Pardon?'

'Well, I actually happen to know two people looking for a flatmate. It _was_ just the two of them living there, but some financial problems have arose - I don't know what, they're very private - but they asked around, well John did, he's a doctor, he asked around to see if anyone knew somebody looking to rent.'

'Where?'

'Baker Street-'

'Oh, I think I know where that is. That's relatively close to my university. Not close, but it's not a ridiculous commute.'

'The only caveat is the other guy. I mean, John's OK. John's great. Down-to-earth guy and everything, but the _other_ guy, he's... he's a bit... much, for some people.'

Marianne smiled. 'People say that about me too, you know.'

Lestrade laughed good-naturedly. 'I'm sure they don't. I mean it though, he's very strange. He's rude. He doesn't give anything away, you know. He keeps his cards very close to his chest. And he's... well he's the most intelligent man I've ever met. Genius, in fact. It's just a shame he's such a prick.'

'He sounds interesting.'

'He _is_. He's certainly interesting, I'll give him that. He works for Scotland Yard sometimes, on a consulting basis. Doesn't ask for a wage or anything, you see what I mean about the strangeness? Who wouldn't ask for -'

'He's...' Marianne, although she had been a little drunk, suddenly felt a weight of sobriety land upon her. 'He's a consultant to Scotland Yard? No wage?'

Lestrade stopped mid-conversation. 'Yes, why?'

'This isn't... by any chance are you talking about a man named Sherlock Holmes?'

Lestrade's eyes widened. 'I am. Why? Do you know him?'

She looked like she had seen a ghost. Her rosy cheeks paled. It couldn't be... that was her first thought. It couldn't be him. But then once the disbelief dissipated, she realised of course it was him. There was no one else called Sherlock Holmes. Why wouldn't it be him? She had left London for some time, for years, but he never had. He'd always said he'd be some kind of crime scene investigator. She'd helped him on so many amateur cases when they were young. It was the only career he ever dreamed of. It was definitely him. _Her_ Sherlock. After all this time...

She was staring at someone who knew him, who had probably seen him a couple of days ago. He was no longer a distant memory of the past, but an actual living, breathing reality.

And then the truth hit. 

She would get to see him again. She would ask Lestrade, and he would tell her where on Baker Street Sherlock lived, she would visit, and she and Sherlock would be back in each other's lives again. Even if not for a while, even if only for one moment... they still would be looking at each other once more. Face to face.

The last time she'd seen him, dear God, it was _devastating_. She'd been bleeding and trembling in the back of an ambulance - 13 years old. He'd been 23. The pure pain in his eyes when he saw what had happened to her. That had been the very last time they had ever saw each other. Her father uprooted the family from London a week later. She finally came back to the city to study seven years ago; she should have guessed he was still living here. Sherlock loved London, though he'd never say that he loved anything aloud, he definitely loved London. She couldn't imagine him living anywhere else in the world.

Marianne nodded in response to Greg's question. 'He was my best friend.'

What could she say, other than that - he was her best friend once over, that was true - but he had also been more important than that. He was like a father to her, a brother, a protector. But it felt strange to say all of that, after so many years of distance. He hadn't wrote back, and she'd sent him so many letters. He was nothing now except somebody that she used to know.

The last words she had said to his face: 'Don't worry. We will find each other again.'

And she had. She had found him. Today of all days, when she was dizzy with prosecco and in desperate need of a flat-share.

She asked Greg politely. 'Will you be able to tell me where on Baker Street he lives? It's been over a decade since I last saw him, I... I'd very much like to see him again.'

'Well, listen, when I bumped into you I was actually making a discrete exit. I'm going over to Sherlock's to drop off some files now, would you believe. He's doing long-distance work on a case; he doesn't come into the office for anything less than what he calls a 'seven'. I could bring you with me now, if you're eager to see him. Though I don't know why anyone would be eager to see Sherlock Holmes.' He chuckled to himself at that. 'If you're up to it.' He was obviously referring to her rosy cheeks and drunk wobbliness.

'A glass of water should sober me up.' 

X

'Lestrade just called.'

At Baker Street, John hung up the phone, facing Sherlock, who was typing on his laptop.

'Hmm.' He wasn't listening.

'He knows someone interested in a flat-share. He's bringing her over now; she was eager to see you, apparantly.'

'Oh, God, not another mindless fan of your blog. Tell him to keep her in the cab. I don't need any more drooling idiots gracing this room today.'

They had seen a lot of potential tenants for the spare room today, all of them had been avid fans of John's blog, had grand ideas about coming into 221b and wooing Sherlock, something like that. He went off on long deductive tangents about them all, and they each ran away with tears in their eyes.

It was after the ninth candidate ran out an emotional wreck that John finally decided he would call off the tenant interviews and just ask friends to keep an eye out for a person needing a flat share instead.

It had been fine just the two of them, until John's wages at the doctor's surgery were cut. Some kind of government austerity measure. And then shortly after that, Sherlock's parents had called, like some bad coincidence, to let him know his monthly 'pocket money', as John called it, would be reduced by a quarter. John had always ribbed Sherlock for living off his parents at this age, but he was not in the mood for teasing after that phone call. He came up with the idea to clear out the study, and Mrs Hudson could rent that out as a third bedroom, thereby reducing their own rent.

'She's not a fan.' John explained in response to Sherlock. 'Lestrade said she's a PHD student, and she lost her side-job at a cafe last week and needs somewhere cheaper to live. He was speaking to her at some kind of party earlier tonight and he mentioned this place as a possible option for her. And she knew your name. She said,' John laughed as though he couldn't believe the next part, 'she said she was an old friend of yours.'

'Well, that's just preposterous. I don't have old _friends_.' Sherlock sneered, not looking up from his laptop.

'Exactly what I thought. I don't know, maybe it's someone from university.'

'I hated everybody from university. Imbeciles.'

'Fair enough.'

'You should have told Lestrade no.'

'Sherlock, I don't think you understand the depths of our financial strain at the minute. I had to buy store-brand ketchup instead of Heinz at the shop today, that's how much we're struggling.'

'If she's read your blog, she's out the door. Understand that.'

'Lestrade said she didn't even know you were working with Scotland Yard these days.' John paused, realising that would mean a considerable length of time had passed since they'd actually known each other. 'She must have known you a long while ago then, when you were young. You've been working with the Yard for ages, haven't you?'

Sherlock had stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his laptop screen without even shutting the machine down. 'Did he say a name?'

'No.'

'It can't be her...' Sherlock was talking to himself now. His palms were closed together in a contemplative pose, fingers pointing to his lips. 'No. It can't be.'

'Her? Who? Sherlock, who do you think it is?' John quizzed quickly, seeing the unnervingly intense expression on Sherlock's face.

'Thirteen years.' Sherlock muttered quietly to himself.

'What? Sherlock? Can you explain for a minute...'

At that moment they heard Mrs Hudson let Lestrade in downstairs. They heard a polite female voice also, soft and light like air.

When she stepped into the room, behind Lestrade, Sherlock's whole face changed. His usual calm composure was now one of pure surprise. He looked like he had seen a ghost, that was actually very close to the truth. She was like a ghost to him now.

There she was, after thirteen years. He had never ever imagined he'd see her again.

After she left London, all those years ago, when she was just a child, he had deliberately chosen to rid her from his memory. It caused too much... pain. The guilt over what had happened to her, something he did not dare to recollect in all the graphic specifics, even now.

She looked the same in so many ways. Her hair was still blonde and long. Now it went all the way down to her hips in elegant waves. She was still incredibly petite, though now she had obviously went through puberty, and there was the small swell of breasts beneath her black and white dress. It felt extraordinarily odd to see her that way - as a woman, no longer the little girl who used to hassle him for more chocolate spread while he worked on cases in his kitchen.

Her green eyes shined at him, though there was something new to them, something that had not lived in them when he last knew her. Tiredness. She looked tired, though she hid it well with her warm smile beaming on her face.

In the few moments he took to glance at her, he couldn't deduce much. A few things here and there. He could deduce that she used sleeping pills in abundance. She had in the past, probably aged sixteen, suffered from some kind of undiagnosed eating disorder, which reared its head again from time to time - probably a result of the trauma she faced during childhood, which he was still trying his hardest not to recollect.

He could deduce that she was in a casual relationship with an older man, an American artist of some kind, whom she regularly asked to hurt her during sex. This thought made him shift on his feet. He was used to her as a child. The idea of her as a grown woman in front of him, with a sex life and a penchant for sleeping pills, was perturbing. What else could he see? She worked at a coffee shop. Though John had already mentioned that after his phone call with Lestrade, not exactly a great deduction. 

That was all he could figure out about her at a glance. Not much. He knew it was the fault of the shock that was preventing him from seeing clearly. How could he be expected to be on his best game when he was being thrown off his guard like this? Thirteen years it had been since he'd saw this person, and it was an uncomfortable parting to say the least. That final night, her tear-stained face and her bloodied clothes, clinging to him, sobbing, in the back of the ambulance.

'Marianne,' was the first word to leave his mouth right now, and though he had tried to speak calmly, in simple acknowledgement, his voice came out as a kind of alarmed whisper.

'Sherlock Holmes, back from the abyss.' She said in a natural tone, and her smile even reached her eyes, but there was also something else in her expression. Nervousness. Her next words were said with something close to sadness. 'It's been a long time, hasn't it?'

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. John and Lestrade were watching the consulting detective strangely; he was never normally disarmed in such an abrupt way.

John spoke to fill the heavy silence.

'You're Marianne, was that your name? I'm Dr John Watson.' He reached his hand towards her and she shook it with warm reception.

'Yes, I'm Marianne Gleeson. It's lovely to meet you, Doctor.'

'Just John's fine.'

'John, then. It's lovely to meet you.'

'How do you know Sherlock? You seem to have given him quite the fright. I can't remember the last time anyone shut him up so quickly.'

Sherlock straightened a little, composing himself, mentally shaking off the discombobulation. Marianne, possibly due to the effect of the alcohol, was looking around the flat with a confident walk. She asked if she could see the spare room and popped her head through the ajar door. It was big enough and looked clean and well-structured.

'My mother was friends with Sherlock's mother.' She began to explain, walking back to where she had previously been stood. 'And after my Mother passed away (I was a baby) Sherlock's Mum babysat me a lot. As in, _all_ of the time. Sherlock was older than me. He was ten when I was just six months old. As I grew up, we became friends. Best friends. He looked after me, babysat me when his Mum had other things to do.' She grinned. 'Maybe lonely people drift towards each other, I don't know, but I helped him with his cases. I started when I was six, and he was sixteen, carrying his notes around for him.'

John's mouth was hanging open. He couldn't believe it. _Sherlock_... a young Sherlock, taking a lonely little girl under his wing and letting her come around with him on his early cases, before he was consulting with the Yard. An amateur sleuth and his young charge.

'You were his protege.' John laughed.

'Not really. I think I ruined a lot of cases with my - what did you call it, Sherlock? - whimsy.' Sherlock didn't respond. 'I mean, people didn't believe we should be friends,' Marianne continued, 'They thought we shouldn't hang around each other so much. Said it was weird, the age gap being ten years, but it was just friendship. People love to see sinister undertones where there aren't any. Anyway, I left London when I was thirteen - that was thirteen years ago. We haven't seen each other since then.'

Marianne was not in any way surprised Sherlock hadn't mentioned her to his flatmate. She herself, had never mentioned Sherlock to any of her acquaintances. It was as though their friendship had been too important to talk about with anyone else. She had wanted to keep it safe in her mind and untarnished. His friendship, and his family's care for her, had been the only hopeful element of her desolate childhood. 

Lestrade had put the files down on the table and not said a word until now, observing the scene with curiosity. It was interesting to know there was a history to Sherlock, that he hadn't always been an island. He had once been responsible, somewhat, for a child.

'Thirteen years. That's a hell of a long time.' Greg chipped in.

'I did try and write letters. A lot of them. No replies.' Marianne's eyes drifted over to Sherlock.

'I was busy,' the detective said, finally speaking.

She smiled as if she had expected this. She should have known. The Sherlock she knew was already detached from emotions as it was. But Marianne, back then, had gotten past that cold exterior. She had gotten to his heart and he had cared for her with almost paternal devotion. After she was no longer a part of his life, of course he would have closed himself back up again. He was not a man who felt comfortable being exposed. He was quite the opposite to Marianne, who felt comfortable only when she was exposed. Raw like a nerve. A wound. It was better that way, she thought, hiding behind nothing.

'You've been drinking.' He commented, as though it were a clever observation, but it wasn't. Her cheeks were red, and she was dressed like she'd been out - she thought it was fairly obvious she had been drinking.

'Yes. A party. That's where I bumped into Greg.'

Lestrade spoke up, 'I thought she would make a great tenant. I've brought you the files for the Gordon case we talked about on the phone, Sherlock, they-'

'Don't need them. Solved it this morning. About ten minutes after our phone call. Check the boot of the youngest son's English teacher's Volvo. You'll find enough DNA evidence there to convict the car's owner.'

'Oh.' Lestrade's shoulders sagged. 'Fair enough.'

'Well, I for one, would be happy to have you live here.' John said.

'Obviously, you would, John. Small, young, blonde. Your type, isn't it? You're attracted to her. You avert your eyes whenever she looks your way, but the second she's not looking, your eyes are on her like a flash, drinking her up-'

'Enough, Sherlock.' John snapped quickly. 'Ignore him, Marianne, he does that a lot.'

Marianne nodded. 'Oh yes, I remember.'

'Rent's due on the third of every month. Not a day later. Right now, I have work to be getting on with. You can come back next week to move everything in.' Sherlock said conclusively, opening up his laptop and dismissing both her and Lestrade with a hand gesture.

He was disappointed in himself for allowing his composure to become so disrupted for a while there. It was time to straighten up. She was just a silly little girl he once knew, obsessed with dreams and fairy-tales. Quite an idiot really. He wondered if she still believed in her Gods, ghosts and spirits, and then he scoffed at the memory of her faith, which he opposed firmly. Judging by the tattoo of a crucifix on her finger, and the lotus flower bracelet, the crystal rings that adorned nearly all of her fingers, she was just as 'spiritual' - God he hated that word - as he remembered her when she was a kid. It had been tolerable when she was young, because she didn't know any better. Now she was a grown woman of twenty six, less tolerable.

She should have left that dream world by now.

'Don't you two not have places to be? As in, Lestrade - back to your wife who has promised not to sleep with the P.E. teacher from Dorset anymore, despite having been to his home on Tuesday, and Marianne - back to your almost-boyfriend who's old enough to be your father.'

'Sherlock!' John chastised, but Marianne seemed unfazed. 

She knew what he was doing. Knew him too well. Anxious that his walls might be under threat, he was doubling up on fortifying them. She didn't take it to heart too much. For a thirty-six year old man, a whole decade older than her, she guessed that he was still as inexperienced in human nature as ever.

She was not the same as him though, and would not end today on Sherlock's coldness.

She walked over to him and in one fluid motion, placed a small kiss upon his cheek, leaving a faint lipstick mark there. She whispered into his ear, 'I told you we would find each other again.'

John and Lestrade watched with total immersion at this exchange, and at Sherlock's expression as she began to walk away, towards the door. He was staring intently at her retreating form.

'Marianne?' He called after her.

He hadn't realised he was going to call her name until he did, on impulse. He knew that the two men were watching him, and whatever he did next, they would remember, and it would form the basis of what they thought about his and Marianne's association. At that moment though, he did not care.

'Yes?' She turned on her heel.

'Good to see you again.' He said, the smallest trace of a grin pulling at his lips.

She knew this was his way of saying everything that he could not. She winked, not seductively, not coyly, but as a warm and considered acknowledgement of his statement. And with Lestrade, she left the room, and left Baker Street.

X 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really important for me with this opening chapter, that you got to meet Marianne. I didn't want to insert some Mary-Sue for Sherlock to eventually fall in love with. I really want to take time to develop Marianne as a sorrowful, neurotic, slightly manipulative, unguarded, traumatised, gentle individual. I don't want to write her as some feisty genius to rival Sherlock because I don't believe he'd be sucked in by that. I always thought the woman to stimulate and suck Sherlock in would not be a deductive genius or a temptress or a firecracker, she would be like a black hole, a damaged soul he couldn't fix but wanted to, and more importantly - someone who kept herself open and receptive. Sherlock strikes me as the opposite. A man of cold hard facts and science. The woman to change his world would be the opposite of that - a woman of spirituality. That's what Marianne is. I hope you got to sense her character a little bit in this chapter, and you get an idea of the devotion they once had to each other. I hope you can also sense how they are bound to each other's lives, how they're about to embark on a strange, uncomfortable, yet (hopefully) beautiful journey together.  
> The other chapters won't feature Marianne on her own so much, but it was vital for me to understand her through having her be the focus of this chapter. If Sherlock is going to fall for someone she has to be three-dimensional, I believe.  
> Please leave feedback! It would be so much appreciated.
> 
> (Also, as a little endnote, the ambiguous thing that happened before Marianne left London when she was younger, that is deliberately unclear at this point. It will be revealed, along with more of Marianne and Sherlock's history, in later chapters.)


	2. El Angel de la Resurreccion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is haunted by guilt over his past mistakes, stopping him from feeling truly comfortable around Marianne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter deals with some very dark themes of abuse and sexual violence.
> 
> This chapter goes into one part of Marianne's complex past that is very traumatic, featuring mentions of child abuse and rape. This is a really important topic to me, and part of what I want to show with the character of Marianne is the process of recovering from sexual violence, especially how it can be a long and arduous process, and by focusing on Marianne's healing, to show that there is still always a way out of the cycle of abuse, always a way out, even if it takes years to understand that. A very, very important subject to me - and so I just want to put a trigger warning on here, as in order to show the process of healing, I obviously need to mention the traumatic event first.
> 
> Flashbacks are shown in italics.
> 
> I borrowed the idea of the stone angel from I Origins, which is a beautiful film. It's definitely worth a watch.
> 
> Song for this chapter: Flightless Bird, American Mouth by Iron and Wine

_Have I found you?  
_

_Flightless bird, brown hair ble_ _eding  
_

_Or lost you?_

_- **Iron & Wine, Flightless Bird, American Mouth**_

_Sherlock, aged twenty-three, was finally home after a long term at university. It was his final year before graduating._

_He was in his room, smoking a cigarette, when there was a frantic knocking at the front door. There was nobody in the house apart from him, so he went downstairs to answer it. He guessed, by the knock, who it was going to be - Marianne, the young girl, now thirteen, that his mother babysat, though more often than not it was Sherlock she ended up hanging around._

_She told people he was her best friend. Though he was always quick to deny it, and explain that he did not have any friends, it was in fact, the truth._

_He answered the door. It was Marianne. She had tears streaming down her face, and she was visibly trembling._

_'Come in.' He said, opening the door further._

_She ran inside and hugged him around the middle at once. She was a very affectionate child, always hugging him, his mother, father, even Mycroft, who never returned the gesture. She received nothing but hostility at home, so it was unsurprising she treated the Holmes household with such warmth. But this hug wasn't a warm hug. It was a terrified one._

_'Your brother's being released early,' Sherlock deduced._

_She pulled back, nodding. 'He phoned the house. Told Dad they're letting him out six months early - for good behaviour. Dad's giving him a second chance. He thinks he's changed.'_

_'Marianne, I've said it before and I'll say it again, your father's a thorough disgrace.'_

_The whole Holmes household resented Marianne's father. They had went to so much trouble to inform him of the verbal abuse that Marianne's brother was inflicting upon her, how terrified Marianne was to live there. He just dismissed it. He said she was a drama queen, and too sensitive. He said her brother was only teasing her, as siblings do. Then when the abuse got physical, when Marianne was seven, she had dashed around to the Holmes' house with a bust lip and a black eye, after her brother had 'taught her a lesson for playing too loudly with her toys while he was trying to sleep'. Sherlock's mother had tended to her wounds, while Sherlock's father had stormed over there and demanded Marianne's father do something or social services would be called, not for the first time._

_Her father had done nothing, until one day the brother (whose name was Thomas) burned Marianne with a cigarette end. She'd tried to hide the burn but Sherlock had noticed it. That's when her father finally had the nerve to kick Thomas out. He got arrested a few weeks later, for a charge ofGBH and assaulting a police officer. And now that he was being released early, the stupid father was allowing the scoundrel back into his home._

_Sherlock was furious. He handed Marianne a handkerchief and told her to wipe her eyes._

_'You can stay here. There are spare rooms.'_

_'You know my Dad won't let me.'_

_'Your Dad won't let you stay here, but he'll let you live under the same roof as a boy who stubbed his cigarette out on your wrist.'_

_'Promise me he's going to be changed, Sherlock. Promise me Thomas will be different this time. Kinder.' She said, the most hopeful look in her eyes, the kitchen light reflecting off of her tears._

_He looked at her solemnly. 'Marianne, I can't promise you that. You know that I would love to be able to promise you that, but I can't.'_

_'He's going to be so angry about his time in prison. He's going to take it all out on me.' She was crying again. 'He is, isn't he?'_

_Sherlock said nothing._

_'I'm so tired, Sherlock.' She whispered weakly. 'My whole life it's just been... fear. All the time. I'm so tired of it.'_

_He never felt so helpless as he did sometimes when he was around Marianne. He wished he could alter the absolute catastrophe that was her life. It was not for lack of trying. The Holmes family had tried, they'd tried hard, but Marianne's father simply would not see the violent disgrace that was his son. No matter how much evidence was presented to him, he chose to look the other way. Meanwhile, Marianne suffered for that choice._

_'Once you're old enough, you can move to university in the city and you'll never have to live there again.' Sherlock offered her this glimpse of hope._

_'I can't wait. I really can't wait. I just want to be older, Sherlock, and when I'm older I'll never be afraid again. I'll be free.'_

_Sherlock knew that things were not quite as simple as that, but she had lived a hard life already, and he thought it was probably best she had something to look forward to. 'Yes, and you'll never be afraid again,'_ _He repeated her words back to her._

_X_   
  


_It was only a couple of weeks later, when Sherlock was at his kitchen table, in the middle of working on a case, that he received the phone call that would inevitably change everything._

_The case he was working on, although still amateur - the police wouldn't take him seriously yet - was his biggest case thus far; and it was impossibly difficult. His brain was working overtime trying to put together the pieces. He did not need any distractions._

_'Hello?' He said into the phone._

_'Sherlock,' Marianne's panicked voice rang down the line. She was hysterically crying. 'Sherlock, Thomas called me and said he's going to teach me a lesson I'll never forget. What does that mean? What do I do?'_

_He sighed. 'Where's your father?'_

_'He's working late. He won't pick up the phone. Thomas is out drinking with his friends but he called me and said he was on his way back. He blames me for everything. He said if I'd never told Dad about the cigarette burn, he would never have been kicked out, or arrested. He's so mad, Sherlock. He sounded crazy on the phone. Drunk, as well.'_

_'Marianne, I'll be over there to collect you as soon as possible. Just lock your door, or go to your neighbours. Go to your neighbours, OK? Tell them everything. They're ordinary, decent people, aren't they? They'll take care of you until I arrive.'_

_'Promise he's not going to hurt me?'_

_She was always doing this, always asking for promises to be made._

_He paused for a beat. 'I promise.'_

_He did not go out to the car to collect her right away, like he'd promised._

_He knew while he was walking back to the kitchen table, to return to his work, that it was perhaps the most cardinal sin that he had committed. To ignore that phone-call. But the truth was his head was still in his work. He was so close to cracking the case. An interruption like going to collect Marianne would put him right back to square one, and he'd never solve it - at least not for weeks. He could not allow emotions to cloud his judgement._

_She'd be fine with her neighbours, she'd be fine, he told himself._

_Fine._

_Marianne was fine._

_She would go to her neighbours and they would see her distress. As regular people, they'd feel a responsibility to look after her, keep her safe from danger. They'd bring her into their front room and give her some water, and food. They'd let her wait there. Protect her from Thomas._

_Marianne was absolutely fine, and she would be fine while he finished this case. No need to drive off in a rush. There was no way her brother would get to her. She was next door and safe. He told himself this like a repetitive mantra while he completed the case-work._

_It took him only twenty-five minutes to figure out the case. He quickly scribbled down the details of his deductions, so he would remember. That took five more minutes. Then he was done. He stood quickly, sprinted out of the door with his car-keys in hand, and sped at once to Marianne's. She was going to be waiting for him at her neighbours, he said to himself a final time, believing it to be true. She was going to be OK. Unharmed._

_Before he even pulled into the street properly, he could see the sirens parked outside her house._

_His heart was beating somewhere inside his throat, and he thought he might be physically sick. He knew that he had just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He had chosen his work before her, and now the poor child had suffered._

_X_

_Sherlock spotted Marianne in the back of the ambulance as he got out of his car. Her blonde hair was contrasted against the dark of the night. There was a police car there too, and her brother was in the back of it._

_He knew what had happened with just one quick look. No clever deductions were necessary._

_Her torn clothes, blood stains on the part of her dress between her legs, the red finger marks on her throat and wrists where Thomas had evidently pinned her down. The shock blanket around her shoulders, the pure trauma on her young face. Thirteen years old. She was thirteen years old. That was all. And her own brother had just raped her. The rest of her life would live under the shadow of this one night._

_And, if Sherlock had just came at once, like he'd told her he would do, none of this would have happened. He would have gotten here in time. He would have taken her home._

_As he stepped towards the ambulance, it did not feel like he was controlling his own movements. He felt like he was looking down on the scene from above. He was walking slow, but somehow couldn't get his body to go any faster._

_Marianne was trembling. She was so traumatised she did not even notice him arrive beside her. She carried on staring straight ahead. At this short distance he could now also see the bloody teeth marks below her bottom lip, where she had obviously bit down hard from pain. He gulped involuntarily. He felt the need to sit sown, but stayed standing._

_'Marianne,' he said cautiously, a hand reaching out, touching her small shoulder. She jumped, flinching in surprise. 'Marianne, it's only me.' He assured. 'Don't worry.'_

_She nodded, not really registering who it was that was beside her._

_'Marianne,' he was surprised to hear the tremor in his own voice. She was looking at him now, and she was vacant. She was in such shock that she couldn't even comprehend her surroundings. 'Marianne, it's me. It's Sherlock. I'm here now.'_

_She squinted to see his face properly. The shock blanket fell from her shoulder and he moved it back into position._

_'Sherlock,' she whispered. 'He really hurt me this time.'_

_Sherlock nodded. 'I know. I...' he found that the lie came easily: 'I got here as fast as I could, as soon as I put the phone down.'_

_'I know.' She said, oblivious to the lie. 'You tried your best.'_

_He nodded._

_'Are you ready to go to the hospital now, sweetheart?' A female paramedic said from inside the van._

_'We have to wait for my Dad, I think.' She answered vaguely._

_Sherlock turned to see Marianne's father speaking to the policemen. Sherlock also stole a glance at Marianne's brother, in the back of the police car, head down. He felt a sudden urge to go over there and drag him out, onto the dirt ground, to kick. To not stop kicking._

_'Will you come with me, Sherlock? To the hospital? I feel safer when you're around.'_

_He nodded. 'The least I can do.'_

_She hugged him, and he could feel her quivering, crying against him. 'It's all right.' He said. It clearly wasn't, but he was at a loss for words. What did one say, in a situation like this? He ventured, 'It's over now. You're safe.'_

_Of course that sentence felt stupid to say aloud: being raped was perhaps over for her, yes. But there was more suffering yet to come. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the trauma. He could have stopped all of it - if he'd came over as soon as she'd asked._

_Marianne's father was now approaching._

_'Get away from my daughter,' He barked._

_'Me.' Sherlock almost laughed in spite of himself, and in spite of the situation. 'You want me to get away from her. I don't think I'm the dangerous one here, do you? You knew what your son was. You knew what kind of man he was. What kind of animal. All you had to do was send him away for good. What? Were you too worried about family optics?'_

_Marianne's father was a member of the local council. Everybody knew deep down that his failure to take action against his violent son was not so much about forgiveness or family devotion, but rather - cowardice. He was afraid that if word got out, it would ruin the image he'd manufactured of himself as a wonderful single-father to two perfect children. The truth wouldn't look too good: that his oldest child abused his youngest, and he turned a blind eye._

_Marianne's father raised a hand as if to strike Sherlock, but stopped with his fist mid-air, as if thinking better of it. 'She needs a fresh start, after this. She needs to get away from London.'_

_'She needs to get away from him,' Sherlock said, pointing to Thomas in the police car. It was now driving away._

_'She won't have to be near him again.'_

_'You finally see the kind of animal your son is?'_

_Marianne's father nodded, ducking his head ._

_'Well, you see it too late. You're not fit to be a father.'_

_'What? And you think you could do a better job? Who the hell do you think you are to her, anyway? I've always thought you were weird, you know that. Mental. Damaged. Hanging around my daughter, a grown boy like yourself, you should have found friends your own age. If you care about her at all, Holmes, don't contact her again. She doesn't need a twenty-something year old man as a friend anymore, not after what's just happened. She needs normal little girl friends her own age.' He turned to Marianne now. 'Come on, kid, we're going to the hospital.'_

_'Sherlock's coming too.'_

_'Sherlock isn't coming, sweetheart. You're not hanging around with him any more, come on. I've had enough of this damn city, haven't you?' He stepped up inside the ambulance, beside her._

_Marianne began to cry, and it took a lot for her father to calm her down. Sherlock stood awkwardly, not knowing quite what to do. Her episode lasted a whole fifteen minutes. Eventually she began to breathe normally. She looked resigned, accepting her situation._

_'Can't I at least say goodbye?' She asked shakily._

_Her father reluctantly conceded._

_Marianne leapt forward, still teary-eyed, tip toes on the ambulance floor, reaching up to him. Sherlock didn't move. He let her wrap her small arms around him._

_'Don't worry, you're my best friend. We'll find each other again. Promise.' She muttered quietly in his ear._

_He said nothing. When she pulled away, he found he could not look at her at all, not even as her father picked her up and sat her on the ambulance stretcher, not as Sherlock heard her sobbing grow heavier, not as the ambulance doors closed, not as it went down the road and out of sight, away, away. Sherlock's knees weakened then, he slid to the ground. His heart was hammering. He looked out at the empty road that the ambulance had just disappeared down._

_She was gone._

_Her father's words swam around in Sherlock's head: 'She doesn't need a twenty-something year old man as a friend anymore, not after what's just happened. She needs normal little girl friends her own age.'_

_He hated that man with vehement passion, but he was right on that one point. Their friendship was no longer appropriate. She needed friends her own age if she was going to recover. Not a high-functioning twenty-three year old sociopath._

_She would not recover with him in her life. He had failed to protect her, failed to save her when she was in sheer distress, had chosen to ignore her and look what had happened. If he could do anything to even begin to make up for his failure, he would have to do it._

_And this was it... this was what he could do for her._

_Leave her alone._

_Let her carry on a new life, of which he was no longer a problematic presence._

_X_

Marianne was occupied moving all of her things from her old flat, half-way across London, to her new room on Baker Street. She had asked David to help, and he was here now, hauling the last of her cardboard boxes from the back of a cab and up the narrow stairs leading to the flat.

It was David's contradictory personality that kept her coming back for more. How he was so totally cold and unfeeling, dominating even, during sex and their interactions in public, yet there was something... devoted about him. Perhaps devoted was not the right word. But when she needed him, most of the time, he could be relied upon. He seemed to enjoy helping her, even if he was rude or annoyed about it, he would still volunteer. She enjoyed that he could be so surprising.

'Marianne, where do you want this box?' He said in that lilting Ohio tone, gesturing at the large box of books in his arms.

'Bedroom,' she said, pointing to the open door, to what was once Sherlock's study, and now her room.

This was her second trip moving her things to Baker Street. She had arrived here yesterday, Thursday, and had a long chat with the landlady Mrs Hudson. She was a lovely, jovial old woman.

Mrs Hudson couldn't get over the fact that she'd known Sherlock as a child, that Sherlock had actually looked out for her and taken care of her.

'He just doesn't seem the type. I can't imagine him taking it upon himself to look after a little girl when he was just a boy himself. I can't picture him even having had friends. If he's trouble now, I bet he was much worse as a young boy.'

They were speaking over a cup of tea, downstairs in her kitchen. Marianne smiled, 'He didn't have friend _s_. I was the only one.'

'How ever did you put up with him?'

'I didn't have anybody else,' she said, softly, 'My mother was gone and my father... and brother... well, we don't need to talk about them, they weren't great... I had Sherlock's family. They were the only people who seemed to care about me. So I could have put up with anything really, anything was better than my own home. And Sherlock wasn't _that_ bad. He could be very bossy, and patronising, definitely, but I saw a side to him he didn't show to anyone else. He could be really gentle.' She paused. 'He was nice. Nobody else seemed to think so, but I did.' 

It was impossibly difficult - being back in his life now as a stranger. As though everything they'd been through, everything they'd shared with each other, how they had opened each other up and cared for each other when it seemed the rest of the world was indifferent, as though all of that had been for nothing. Now when she looked at him, he looked right through her.

She knew deep down it was part of his act. She knew that he was contriving apathy towards her for a reason. The new version of himself he had constructed was not compatible with the friendship they'd once shared. He could not let the people of his new life - Dr John Watson, DI Greg Lestrade - witness him drop his guard down the way he used to, when he was younger, like when he'd tell the secret parts of himself that he wished no one else to know, how he did not feel like he belonged anywhere, how inferior he felt to the rest of his family, how he hated other boys his age because a simple part of him wanted to be them. Those parts of Sherlock - those achingly _human_ parts - were long gone, she suspected. Or perhaps not gone, but deeply buried, so deep almost impossible to uncover.

Now, on a rainy Friday evening, she looked around her new home with both anxiety and excitement. Change was often a good thing for her, especially when she felt weighed down with numbness, and recently, she'd felt _so_ numb.

David came and put his arms around her waist. She was small and delicate, and he was tall and broad shouldered; when he stood with her like this it felt like being swallowed. It brought her comfort, pretending she was simply not there for a few moments. She closed her eyes.

'It's a nice place,' he commented. 'You'll enjoy it here. Shame you have to share it with two old men.'

'Younger than you,' she grinned.

'Not as a good in the sack, though.'

She shrugged. 'How would I know?'

'Hm, yes, you're just mine, aren't you?' He kissed her neck.

He said things like this all the time. _You're mine. My girl. All mine._ None of it made sense considering they had agreed not to call it an official relationship, and they both agreed they were free to sleep with anyone else they pleased.

She was most definitely not _his_ by any means. Yet neither of them ever seemed to be sleeping with anyone else. He acted like he hated the idea of a committed relationship as much as she did, but secretly, she knew that if she agreed, he'd be happy to become exclusive with her in a heartbeat. That was absolutely not what she wanted, so she never brought it up, and bristled whenever he said things like 'you're mine'.

It was strange, how adverse she was to the idea of a caring and committed relationship, considering how much she prided herself on her openness and love of connecting. Yet there was something about the idea of being loved and admired that made her feel nauseous. She would prefer to submit to someone sexually and keep it at that. A relationship was too much pressure. Too many ways to fail, to let someone down.

It came down to that. Her fear of being inadequate, of being a disappointing human being. She did not think there was much about her to find lovable. If she did make things official with David, she would let him down, she would be less than he had imagined, and inevitably, he would lose any tenderness for her. She wanted to avoid that. If she never settled down with anyone, they would always enjoy her company. She would never become too familiar to anyone.

There was some ruckus downstairs signalling that Sherlock and John were home. She could hear them come up the steps. 

'Oh, hello there, Marianne,' John announced as they entered through the living room door. 'You all settled in?'

'Yes!' She exclaimed excitedly. 'I just need to empty some of the last boxes.'

Sherlock didn't speak or even acknowledge that she was there. He was taking off his coat and scarf, hanging them on the back of the door.

'This is David,' she said, and David stepped forward to shake John's hand.

'Pleasure to meet you. You're Marianne's... um, boyfriend?' John asked politely, not quite sure of their relation to each other, with the significant age difference.

'Not quite,' David laughed, 'I just say she's good fun. She makes me feel young again. That's good enough.' His hand went down to her backside, playfully. Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together in something that looked like distaste.

'Oh,' John smiled awkwardly, 'Well, nice to meet you. I'm John.'

'And you must be Sherlock Holmes - Marianne's old pal.' David reached forward to shake Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock didn't move. David dropped his hand.

'Pal.' Sherlock muttered to himself, looking at David and then turning around, picking up some paperwork from the desk. He began to read it, ignoring everyone in the room.

'I better get going then, babe,' David said, kissing her head. 'Call me tomorrow.'

She nodded, waving as he left.

When he was barely even out of the door, Sherlock rolled his eyes and droned, 'Surely you could have chose better than that.'

He was not looking at her, and the tone of his voice sounded cruel. John gave him a disapproving look.

Marianne shrugged, picking up one of her boxes from beside the armchair. 'He's kind once you get to know him.'

'I'll bet,' Sherlock uttered sarcastically. 'Really, it is a fatal flaw you must correct - it's always been this way with you - your inability to see the faults in people, a lack of pragmatic realism. Always looking for the non-existent rosy redemptive qualities. It's not an admirable trait like you think it is, Marianne, but actually very childish, ignorant and dangerous. You're young enough to be his daughter, and he happens to be sleeping with three other women as well as you. One of them is even younger than you and he's going to see her tonight. Right now, in fact.'

Though coming from somebody else such a warning could be framed as good advice, but coming from Sherlock. she could sense that it was pure coldness that was fuelling him, his desire to further the distance between them.

She had thought David was sleeping with only her, but she must have been wrong, because it was unlikely Sherlock was incorrect in his evaluation. Still, it didn't really bother her. She actually felt slightly comforted by the knowledge he was seeing other people. She had been growing tremendously worried David would ask her to go steady. She was glad that was not looking like a possibility.

'Sherlock, stop it.' John snapped.

'It's OK.' Marianne smiled.

'You're OK with being treated like a mindless doll, discarded and then picked up again whenever he fancies sleeping with you?' Sherlock sneered, still not making eye contact.

This time John's voice was low and final. 'Sherlock, stop!' He then turned to Marianne. 'Really sorry about him, he's been wired recently, there's a spot of media attention on us at the moment.'

Marianne assured John she was not in any way offended. In truth, she wasn't, not really. People had spoke to her a lot worse. Though, there was a time when Sherlock would have threatened anyone who dared to speak to her the way he was now speaking to her. She didn't say that now, she simply thought it. 

She spent the next couple of hours on her room, making it as comfortable as possible. She could hear from through the door, John giving Sherlock a stern talking to. She could also hear how Sherlock didn't seem to care one bit. He was barely responding to John's words.

After a while, she was finished with her room. She had decorated it well, made it incredibly homely, and unique to her. The duvet covers were her favourite colour, a pastel green. Lots of pillows. She had dream-catchers above the bed, and all of her crystals on the window sill. Her books were stacked on the floor. She had a turntable playing some music quietly in the corner. On the wall opposite her bed was a large photo of a stone angel, and on her desk a framed photograph of her mother holding her as a baby. She always kept this on her desk, wherever she lived, because she couldn't remember her mother - and always wanted the close reminder of her warmth and beauty.

'I've done,' she sighed with exhausted enthusiasm, popping her head through the door to where Sherlock and John were sat in their respective chairs. They were both reading: John - a book, and Sherlock - what looked like case notes. 'Would you like to see? It's so different now.'

John stood politely and followed her through to her room. Sherlock had been ignoring Marianne, but the second John moved to go through, he stood also. Marianne found that action particularly interesting, though she didn't quite know what to think about it.

'Is this you?' John asked pointing to the framed photograph on the desk.

'Yes, me and my mother, when I was a baby.' She slipped past the desk and guided them to stare at the large photograph opposite her bed.

'I want to tell you about this.' She began to explain, pointing upwards. 'This is real proof of the spirit world.'

She couldn't see Sherlock because she was stood in front of him, but she could almost hear him roll his eyes. She knew that's what he was doing. Despite years apart, she still found it impossibly easy to see through him, she was discovering.

'God, here we go,' he muttered.

'It is, though.' She ignored his interruption. 'It is proof of a spirit world. El Angel de la Ressurecion.' She pronounced perfectly.

'What?' Sherlock scoffed.

She repeated the words. 'It's the name of the statue, of the statue in St Anne's cemetery. But it's not the statue that's interesting, it's the eyes. Look at the eyes. They're alive.' She was pointing, and beaming with pure excitement, hoping somehow they would see with wonder what she was seeing, turning around to face them. 'When the lady who photographed this took the photo, when she clicked the button, the eyes appeared. Just as she took the photo. Like a spirit was suddenly inside the statue, to make itself known, to be captured in a picture. Amazing, isn't it?'

'Yes, amazing what you can do on Photoshop these days.' Sherlock said with something like impatience in his voice.

She snapped a little this time, 'It is not Photoshop. The eyes appeared when she took the photo. Right as she took it.'

'Go around saying things like that in public, Marianne, you'll be sectioned.'

'Sherlock!' John hissed.

'It's true,' he said. 'It's idiocy to fall for this, and you think so too, John, you're just too polite to say. This is nothing but a stone statue that some charlatan photoshopped a pair of human eyes on, then reprinted, reproduced, and in the end, probably made a fortune selling to gullible headcases like yourself, Marianne.'

'Sherlock, that is just out of order.' John was furious.

Sherlock contrived a nonchalant expression, but somehow Marianne could sense in him that he knew he'd taken it too far using the word headcase. He made no effort to apologise.

'It's fine,' Marianne said pleasantly, diplomatically, 'You don't have to believe what I believe, sorry, I didn't mean to force my worldview on you or anything-'

'You don't need to apologise, Marianne.' John shot a harsh look at Sherlock.

'Maybe I _am_ a headcase, I don't think so, but I would still believe in this photograph anyway, no matter what. I think it's because I feel grateful to it. When I moved from London, the thought of this statue got me through a lot. I didn't have anybody to talk to about... things in my life, so I used to pray to this. It's nice to have something to believe in sometimes.'

She said that last part quietly, but Sherlock heard, and he understood. He of course knew what it was that she was referring to when she said that, said 'things in my life'. What she was referring to was when her brother had cornered her in an empty house and raped her. Thirteen years old. She'd been thirteen years old. Even after all these years, Sherlock couldn't help but tense his muscles at the very thought of that night.

Part of why he was finding it so inconvenient, Marianne being around now, in Baker Street, was the guilt.

He was not used to guilt. It was most... disarming.

He had been able to block her from his memory for over a decade, and not dwell on his error that night - when he had failed to go to her, when he finished his casework first. He'd managed thirteen years without looking back. But now, seeing her again, the guilt felt like some kind of tumour eating away at him. It would not do. He could barely hold eye contact with her.

He knew she had no idea. Had no idea that after he'd put the phone down that night he had not jumped right in the car to pick her up, but instead ignored her distress for a further half an hour. She actually thought he'd tried his best. That's what exacerbated the guilt, her belief in his goodness.

And now, here she was, sharing a part of her healing process - some kind of stone statue she had prayed to, likely because she had nothing else, nobody else. Her father was a failure. He wouldn't have done a good job at aiding her recovery. No, when she left London, she lost the only people who had ever really cared for her. Sherlock and his family.

He thought he'd done the right thing, ignoring her letters. As her father said, she didn't need a twenty-three year old man as her best friend, it was no longer, if it ever even had been in the first place - appropriate.

He thought he'd done the right thing by leaving her alone.

But it looked like he was wrong. She'd had no one, had to turn to a statue for Christ's sake, and now that she was sharing the importance of that statue, he was deriding her. He was actually _standing_ here and deriding the thing that had gotten her through the aftermath, the years of pain.

'Ignore me, Marianne. I...' He murmured quietly, looking at the carpet. 'I apologise, that was... It's...' He coughed, evidently uncomfortable. 'I think it's good, actually, that you found something - this statue - that could bring you comfort after what happened,' he glanced up at her, 'Please forgive what I just said.'

His eyes were back on the ground again, and then before she could respond, he exited the room.


	3. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Marianne realise they are now nothing but strangers to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing feedback. Really, it's the feedback that pushes me to keep updating. I love hearing your thoughts, and I'd be open to hear anything you would like to see occur in this story.
> 
> Trigger warning for mentions of using prescribtion pills recreationally.
> 
> Song for this chapter: Winter by Daughter

_Drifting apart like two sheets of ice..._

_Frozen hearts growing colder with time..._

_And now we are strange, strangers_

**\- Daughter, Winter**

She'd been living there for over two weeks now, and was getting accustomed to the rhythms of Baker Street. She liked Doctor Watson very much; she held a sort of tenderness for kind, straight-laced men like him. There was something comforting about his presence in Baker Street. In fact, she found herself very glad that John lived there, as she often felt uncomfortable when it was just herself and Sherlock in the flat. Sherlock would either ignore her, or berate her for something inconsequential. Last night, when John had been out on a date, and she'd slipped through to the kitchen for a cup of tea, Sherlock had told her she needed to stop burning so much incense in her room because it was giving him a headache and disrupting his ability to think. She nodded and told him she'd not burn so much in future, but inside she knew he was just looking for reasons to be annoyed at her.

If she could speak to her younger self, it would be quite disconcerting - to tell the child in her that one day she'd be uncomfortable and awkward in the same room as Sherlock Holmes. How could somebody go from being the friend of her life, the one she missed as though a missing limb, to a total stranger?

At first she'd thought it was solely Sherlock to blame for the cold distance between them. She had guessed the game he was playing. He was shielding himself from caring about her, because he was no longer the same considerate boy he had once been. The one who would listen to her whine about her family problems and promise her things would get better. He was no longer the same person who let her accompany him on cases so she didn't have to sit at home alone and afraid.

He wasn't that version of Sherlock anymore - and so she believed that his callousness was coming from a need to push her away. before she converted him back to the more receptive version of himself that she once knew.

However, there was something else contributing to their lack of warmth towards each other, she was now realising.

_She_ was to blame as well.

She spent a lot of time speaking to John, connecting with him, sharing parts of her mind and spirit with him, but when it came to Sherlock, she didn't even try to break through his mask. She hadn't realised her lack of effort with him until the past few days.

It wasn't so much that she was angry at him. She understood his reasons for wanting to avoid getting too close to her; he must have spent a while constructing and securing his aloof manner. She understood his reasons completely, and did not blame him for them. Yet there was a kind of bitterness - not anger, bitterness - in her that she couldn't really name. Each time she thought of the myriad of unanswered letters she'd sent him growing up, she felt annoyance curl in her stomach. He probably thought he was helping her have a fresh start, by ignoring her, some silly reason such as that. But she had _needed_ him. Her whole life had went up in flames. He must have known deep down that she had needed him. Surely, he must have known.

All he'd had to do was write one damn letter, and she'd have been so much less alone. 

Watching him now at the kitchen table, as he looked at samples through a microscope, she didn't feel the urge to 'connect' or 'share'. She didn't even feel the urge to be open with him, the way she was with everyone else. She felt the urge to take her soup into the next room and not come back through until John arrived. A part of her wondered if she held resentment for him. Was that the feeling? Resentment?

'Could you eat that any louder?' Sherlock said irritably, not looking up from his microscope.

'It's just soup,' she said, a little taken aback. Was he being serious? This was a kitchen table after all. Meant for eating. Not looking at dead skin cells through a microscope.

'You're slurping it like a dog taking water from a lake.' He still hadn't looked up from his work. 'It's very distracting to me, Marianne.'

She didn't believe that she'd been eating the soup loudly at all, just normally, but she ate it even quieter now. Self-conscious.

'And next time can you make a less fragrant dish? The smell is most distracting. Like being trapped in a field of mint.'

'It's mint soup.'

What did he expect mint soup to smell of?

'Yes, evidently. And the smell is overwhelming.'

It really wasn't, but she nodded anyway, conceding.

She wasn't sure why he was taunting her so needlessly. Was he looking for some kind of fight? She wouldn't give it to him. She was not a child, and neither was he, though he was acting like one, whether he realised or not.

She tried to consider what he could be gaining from his meanness. Of course it ensured they would remain distant strangers, if he was always sniping at her, treating her like he treated the rest of the world - as an idiot, hindrance, a mindless member of the clueless population. It stopped him from developing any sort of fondness, or the old tenderness he once had for her, if he saw her as an annoying fool. That's probably what he was playing at. Being cruel and judgemental made it easier for them to remain strangers.

Well, she thought, if he wanted to play games, she would oblige.

Sherlock might be the frozen-hearted master of all things detached and unfeeling, but Marianne knew that there was an advantage she had over him. An advantage she had over most people.

Her friends called her an empath, and it was something she agreed with. She was intricately attuned to other people's moods, either good or bad. She could feel everything, sometimes to an extreme, and while she mostly used this trait of her's for the greater good (to sympathise, to help people, to connect, to make others feel at peace or comfortable) she could also use it to her own advantage when she needed to. She was so in tune to the emotional pulse of the world, it made manipulation very easy.

Sherlock may be able to glance at somebody and give them their life story from the way they had bitten their nail or tied their shoelaces, but he had no clue when it came to thoughts and feelings. He could never sense the mood of a room. She could. Her emotional intuitiveness was incredibly strong. She imagined that it was something she had inherited from her mother, because her father certainly had no such trait. 

How could she use this to her advantage now, to gain the upper hand over Sherlock? What could she sense about his feelings, to manipulate?

Well, she sensed that he was perturbed by how she was now a grown woman, and different to the small child he remembered. She could disarm him even further with that, with how she was an adult now, no longer able to be guided by him so easily.

She washed her bowl in the sink and went through to her room. She took the sleeping pills she always took, usually at a later time than this though, and went and sat back down at the kitchen table with a book. 

She knew he wouldn't be able to keep his distance any more. 

After a few moments, Sherlock looked up, and at her face. He announced: 'You're on ambien.'

' _On ambien_? It's not like a high, Sherlock. They're prescribed by a doctor.' 

'As sleeping pills, yes, but you don't just use them to sleep, do you? You have no intention of going to sleep any time soon. You use them because they make you feel unaware for a time, disoriented. You enjoy the hazy buzz they give you.' He glanced at her up and down. 'You've played the pharmacy system so you can have more than you actually need.'

'You're talking like it's heroin, Sherlock. It's just a regular sleeping pill. Thousands of people across the country are prescribed these every day. Completely legal.'

'Paracetamol is legal, doesn't mean it's safe to use recreationally, or to potentially overdose on.' He countered.

She almost smiled at the word safe leaving his lips. She'd knew he would reveal his cards, she knew he wouldn't be able to keep them to his chest.

She'd sensed correctly that he was unnerved by her being an adult now, and judging by the way Sherlock had reacted to David the other week. There was still a streak of the old protectiveness in him, no matter how well he hid it beneath his criticism and his cool exterior.

He wanted to act like she was nothing but a moron impeding his day to day activities. She'd knew how to foil that plan. Once he saw her as a troubled adult, one with a fondness for sleeping pills, he couldn't stay distant then, the cracks in his mask would be revealed. She smiled at how correct she had been.

Yes, she thought to herself, two could definitely play at this game, Sherlock.

'Well, these sleeping pills are safe, and I'm not overdosing on them. I took two.'

'You take them too much, then. The doctor prescribed them for you occasionally, not this often, not this casually.'

She shrugged. 

'Your liver will rot.'

'Maybe.'

'And that's OK, you're OK with needing a liver transplant by the time you turn forty?'

'Do you want a pill Sherlock?' She said with a smile, 'Is that what's wrong? Are you jealous? Would you like me to fetch you one, I have plenty?'

She affected in her voice then, the same elevated sneer she'd heard in his tone so many times these past few weeks. She knew then, by the look of his defeated expression, that she'd won whatever little game he'd been playing. He'd revealed himself. Revealed that he actually cared, even just a little bit. And because he had no idea about people's emotional intent, he had no idea that he'd been manipulated. 

'No, I don't want one,' he finally said, with contempt.

'Well, all right then.' And she looked down at her book. 

She could feel that he was observing her closely. 

'You can't even focus on the words on the page.' He sneered, 'They're swimming in front of you.'

'Well, I like to watch them swim.' She replied instantly, not looking up.

He was watching her with confusion. 

'You've changed.' He said, and the sound came out like some kind of whisper. As though he didn't want it to be true.

She finally glanced up. He couldn't hold her gaze, and looked down abruptly. 

'So have you,' she responded, before returning to the page she was looking at in her book.

While she knew it was wrong, to manipulate people's feelings like that, she sometimes felt she couldn't help herself. She thought of her empathic abilities like tools in her arsenal. Sherlock used his intellect to get ahead, why couldn't she use her greatest asset?

She knew, she _obviously_ knew deep down it was wrong, but simply found herself unable to stop. Manipulation was too convenient when it was this easily achieved.

She stood up after some time. 'I'm going to go to bed, before you get the DEA on me.' 

'There's no DEA in this country,' he snapped.

'It was a joke.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed tapping into Marianne's darker side, and I hope you're enjoying the strangeness of their interactions. Creating a believable dynamic is important to me, and I don't just want it to be as simple as 'Protective Sherlock' or 'Gentle Marianne'. These are two very eccentric, strange individuals so I don't think that a friendship relationship between two eccentrics such as these, would ever be plain-sailing. I really hope that their strange relationship is coming off as interesting. It's so difficult to show Sherlock as connected to anyone apart from John. I'll keep my fingers crossed that Sherlock and Marianne are interesting enough at this point.


	4. An Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Marianne proves useful to Sherlock during his meeting with a client, a new dynamic enters into their relationship, something new that wasn't there before - but surely Marianne is seeing things that aren't there. Sherlock Holmes doesn't... flirt, does he? And after Sherlock lets his guard down for a moment, showing a semblance of warmth to her, he puts in extra effort to distance himself from her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for still reading this story if you're here now. I'm sorry this took a while to upload. I've moved into a new flat and I'm starting my MA soon, so there's less time than I had over summer.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> To avoid long gaps between uploads I'll try and keep the chapter's slightly shorter in future. But I always want to put my best effort into this. Feedback really helps keep me motivated. I'm also open to hearing anything you would want to see in this story, any particular scenes or scenarios or interactions that would fascinate you. The readers are as much a part of controlling this story as I am. 
> 
> I'm not sure whether this one needs a content warning - but some pretty dark matters are mentioned briefly.
> 
> Song for this chapter: The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by Birdy

_I'll wear my badge a vinyl sticker with big block letters adherent to my chest_

_  
That tells your new friends I am a visitor here_

_  
I am not permanent..._

_And I am finally seeing_

  
_Why I was the one worth leaving..._  
  
**\- Birdy, The District Sleeps Alone Tonight**

Since Sherlock had revealed in one of his deductions that David was sleeping with three other women, Marianne had been struggling to understand why that bothered her.

She had always thought David was interested in taking things to the next level, and becoming exclusive, and that had been something she was _not_ at all interested in. So why did she care that there were three other women then?

She always thought she wanted him to have other women on the side, so there was no chance that anything serious would happen between herself and him. Because serious relationships, of course, were too uncomfortable for her to even consider. There were too many opportunities inside a relationship to let someone down. To be put on a pedestal and then thrown off. That's why she liked sexual relations only, that way she did not have to be concerned with whether or not she was a disappointment. There was no pressure. Her friends always thought it strange, considering how vulnerable and open-hearted she was. They thought it very contradictory that she wouldn't want to be in a relationship. But that was Marianne. A barrel of contradictions.

Like right now, with David. She had no idea why it bothered her so much that he was sleeping with others. Wasn't that what she wanted - distance? Wasn't it a good thing he wasn't interested in solely her?

She asked him on the phone one day if it was true about the other girls, and he said yes. Right away. No hesitation.

'That's part of our deal though, isn't it? We're not exclusive.'

'Yes, yes,' Marianne responded quickly. 'I just wanted to make sure.'

'Why?'

'No reason, really. I just wanted to make sure.'

'You're not... this isn't... are you calling us quits over this?'

She thought for a long moment.

'Of course not.'

He breathed a sigh of relief down the phone. 'Good. You're still my favourite, you know.'

That made her feel calm again. 'Where are you now?' She asked.

'I'm at my place.'

'Are you alone?'

'Yeah, why?'

She began to say sensual, erotic things to him, and soon the two were engaged in heated phone sex. She could feel the sweat from her forehead cling to her fringe as she touched herself.

Sex was a very prominent thing for her, in the sense that whenever she began to grow feelings of unworthiness, which was often, engaging in sexual activity with someone allowed her to feel worthy again. Or some derivation of worthy. Especially if she asked them to debase her. That was why she enjoyed submitting herself so much. Whoever she was sleeping with, if they spoke to her with degradation, treated her with degradation, she felt like she was less of a let-down, like she was getting what she deserved. Punishment.

It was a strange philosophy, but it suited her. She liked it that way. Needed it that way. The thought of tender sex made her feel slightly uncomfortable. She required the feeling of subjugation, which she received right now, as David purred insults and names down the phone at her as she came. She could hear the rise in his voice , as he also got closer to coming.

X

After the phone-sex, Marianne didn't bother showering despite the sweat on her face and thighs. She'd already showered in the morning anyway, and her hair was soft and clean. There was no need to shower again. Yes, her face was a little red and sweaty, but honestly, when she looked in the mirror, she thought it gave her a kind of healthy glow. In fact, she really enjoyed the way she looked - with a sweaty fringe and flushed cheeks. She enjoyed her appearance so much that she wished David were here to taunt him with her beauty. Marianne sometimes had arrogant thoughts like that (hated herself for them, also). Those thoughts were her private secrets. She never voiced them. Never told anyone she thought she was quite beautiful sometimes. Guilt rushed through her for even ascribing such a positive word to herself.

She went through to the front room, where John was back from work and he and Sherlock were speaking to a client.

The client looked like he was trying to keep it together, telling his story, his emotions close to the surface, but Marianne sensed he was stopping himself from indulging in his real feelings (the truth) fully.

She noticed the way his eyes glazed over as he relayed the details of his son's apparent suicide, which he was telling the boys was in fact a cover-up of a murder. One he wished they would solve.

The man was detaching himself from the words he was saying so as not to feel them. She felt a wave of pure compassion run through her. Because there was something else she could sense as well in the stranger - guilt.

'Sorry to interrupt,' she said softly, sitting on the arm of the armchair Sherlock was sat in, her thigh pressed lightly against his wrist. He pulled his wrist away immediately. 'I'm Marianne. I just wanted to say this - I think you speak with such grace, Sir.'

'Thank you,' the client muttered, momentarily distracted, bowing his head.

'Marianne, would you mind _not_ interrupting while John and I are working -' Sherlock began to chastise.

She ignored him and carried on speaking to the client. Her eyes were focused on the stranger intently, and she made sure she looked warm and open in her expression. Her rosy cheeks, and a hopeful and graceful smile beaming gently towards him.

'How long has it been since you lost your son, Sir?'

'A week.'

'You have such a strength to come here. You want to do right by him as soon as possible, don't you?'

He nodded. She was still smiling kindly.

There was a reason for the guilt that she had sensed moments ago. There was a reason for the man's detachment from his words. It wasn't so much that he was trying to distance himself from the grief, though he was doing that too, but it was more that he knew the words he was saying weren't true. He was trying to deceive himself as he spoke to Sherlock and John. In turn trying to deceive them, too. She could see stark and pitiful deception all over his face.

What could be the reason for that?

Well, the explanation was quite simple. It is a hard thing, she imagined, to accept that someone you love was so lost they could see no way out but death. It is an even harder thing for a parent to accept, she guesses.

Easier to believe sinister, exterior forces were at work. Easier to believe someone pushed your son from a tall building, rather than him having jumped. The man knew that his son had killed himself, but he was trying to trick himself otherwise. Because that hurt less than the truth. So he had conceived this whole murder conspiracy to hide what he really knew. His son had actually killed himself. The police were not covering up anything. No conspiracy.

In all likelihood there was probably a suicide note that he had gotten rid of, so he could play out this fantasy in which his son never really jumped. A fantasy in which he felt like less of a failure as a father.

She was not surprised that Sherlock hadn't deduced this already, because this was _feeling_. This was emotion, sensitivity, vulnerability. It wasn't hard cold facts, and therefore, not Sherlock's field of expertise.

This was her's.

'It's a comforting thought to think that suicide isn't the truth of what happened, that it could have been an accident, or someone else's fault. Isn't it, Sir? I am very sorry for what you must be feeling. But there was a note, wasn't there? I'm sorry.'

'I...' He muttered, his bottom lip trembling immediately. He nodded. 'I can't face it...' and he began to sob softly.

She heard a small intake of breath beside her, and Sherlock clapped his hands together. This was as close to a shocked gasp as he would allow himself.

'How did you guess that?' Sherlock was looking at her with confusion and intrigue. 'How did you guess that so quickly? I mean, I see it _now_ , quite obviously, but how did you get there first...'

'I didn't 'guess' anything,' she said quietly, not sure this was the conversation to be having in front of the poor client. 'I sensed it.'

She walked over to the grieving father and talked softly with him for some time, offering him her loving words. Meanwhile, John smirked at Sherlock, made taunting comments about how seemingly impressed and irked Sherlock was about Marianne jumping to the conclusion first. Sherlock didn't pay him any attention. 

When the man was ready to go, Marianne guided him to the door. She came back up the stairs to see Sherlock restlessly balanced on the edge of the armchair where she had been sitting minutes ago. He turned his eyes to her the minute she stepped into the room.

'Tell me how, Marianne?'

She laughed, shrugging her shoulders. Was he actually so annoyed by this? 

'I told you, Sherlock. I sensed it. He wasn't even believing the words he was saying. I can imagine it's easier and softer to believe it was something else other than suicide that took a loved one away. Easier to believe they were murdered, rather than that they took their own life. That's a horrible weight to have on your soul.'

'So you're saying you figured all of that out because you looked inside and understood his _soul_?' He said the word with feasible contempt, scoffing. 'Understanding souls - which are fictitious inventions in the first place - doesn't solve cases or uncover deceptive clients, Marianne, there has to be something else, some piece of evidence you saw that I missed.' He repeated again: 'Understanding people doesn't solve cases.'

'Well, it did this time,' she said with subdued but resolute confidence.

He analysed her expression in detail. She wondered if he noticed the open look in her eyes that wanted his kindness or even just his approval. 

He suddenly went from seeming irked, to impressed. A grin (or perhaps a smirk?) played on the corner of his mouth. 

'So your intimacy with empathy and my lack of intimacy with it, just handed you an intellectual superiority over me? Is that your explanation?'

She smiled now, too. But not because she was impressed. She found it amusing how bothered he was.

'I am definitely not intellectually superior in any way, Sherlock. I'm probably an idiot compared to you. The only thing that made me quicker to the gun this time, was that feelings were the give-away, not facts. That's all, there's not much else to it. If another client walked in right now, with evidence on his tie or his shoelaces that would give the case away, you would almost certainly be the one to figure it out.'

'Of course I would.' He scoffed.

'If it bothers you this much that I could see through one man's deception, put a sign up or text me when you're seeing clients and I won't come through to the front room.'

'No, no.' He responded evenly. 'I,' he paused, and then allowed his grin to return. 'Good work, that's all. Just... good work.'

She hated how happy his comment made her, and his grin, how that touched a spot deep inside of her.

She was still the same small little girl desperate for Sherlock Holmes' approval and friendship. He had been so cold to her since she moved in, so determined for a wall to form between them, that his sudden attention to her lit her up like a Christmas tree. She felt a rush of warmth in her blood. She thought not to push it any further, to be quiet and be glad that he'd paid her this compliment. But she was not one for playing it safe. She was as open as floodgates. 

She took it a little bit further.

'Better work than when I would follow you around as a kid getting chocolate spread all over your paperwork.'

She expected he would not react to this, or roll his eyes, annoyed at her referencing their past association. But she was wrong.

He actually chuckled, and genuinely, too. In the same way she had seen him laugh at John's quips. He hadn't given her this kind of civility since she arrived. She was a little surprised to see the laugh, and the way it even reached his eyes. And then how his eyes met hers. He had previously been so averse to ever meeting her eyes. Like he might find something he didn't want to in them. But now he was looking at her, for a long second.

His eyes were unremarkable in the living room light. Grey-blue, closer to grey. It hurt her, quite frankly, to look in his eyes and find them unremarkable. She didn't know why exactly that hurt. 

'Always chocolate spread with you, wasn't it? The jar was glued to you.' He was smirking still, amused by the memory. 'Ate it with a spoon like an animal. God knows how many case notes had chocolate fingerprints all over them.'

She grinned then, too. At the memory, but also, at the way he was currently interacting with her. It was so new and fresh. What had changed? What had allowed him - even if it was only going to be for this moment - to stop the attempt at building a wall, and actually connect with her?

Was it because she had proved herself intelligent and competent by figuring out the client? Was that what had turned the tables? Was that why he was being civil and even real with her now? Perhaps. That was pretty pathetic and egocentric of him; only interested in connecting with her because she had proved herself clever.

Still, it was nice to have his affection finally. As small as this offering was.

She noticed that John had been carefully monitoring this strange exchange of energy between them. The doctor looked positively fascinated, his head moving back and forth between them as they spoke, while pretending to be reading this morning's paper. Sherlock was definitely... different, around her than he was with other people. He was more irate, almost on edge, but not quite. She knew John was eager to know the details of their old friendship.

And there was something else odd about this interaction Sherlock was currently having with her. She wondered if John had noticed it too, or was she seeing things?

She hated to say this, but, in a strange and indeterminable way - his tone of voice when he had said: 'Always chocolate spread with you, wasn't it?' and all of that - well, it had sounded vaguely... flirtatious. She had to be wrong. She _had_ to be, for she was certain Sherlock both did not know how to flirt, or even understood what it meant.

Marianne simply laughed along with him, trying not to be too self-conscious of John's attention on then. She found herself idly hoping Sherlock liked the way she looked right now, her rosy cheeks and tousled hair. Deep down, however, she understood that Sherlock was unconcerned by aesthetics. Plus, he was a whole ten years her senior - he knew her when she was a kid. For Christ's sake, he probably still _saw_ her as a kid. It didn't matter if he didn't like the way she looked. She shouldn't want him to find her attractive. She pushed the whole train of thought out of her brain, shocked that she was entertaining such ideas. 

'You should follow John and I around on an actual case, Marianne. Prove that your usefulness this time wasn't just a fluke.' He said when they had finished laughing.

'Perhaps,' she said. 'No such thing as flukes, though.'

'Well, you'll have to prove that.'

That... that _had_ to be flirting! Or was he really so oblivious that he didn't realise what flirting sounded like... because surely he would never do it intentionally? His expression was relatively stoic. It wasn't the face of someone flirting. He had the same expression when he spoke to John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade etc.

She internally chastised herself. She was crazy. Sherlock Holmes absolutely didn't flirt. Why was this even in her head right now? Idiotic. Perhaps the phone-call with David had put her in a strange mood. She decided that was the reason for her absurd thoughts.

She said casually. 'Maybe, Sherlock. I have to get going, if that's OK.'

'Oh, did you say you were going to the library, Marianne?' John piped up.

'I am, yes.'

'Could you do me a favour please, and get a loaf of bread and some milk from the shop when you're on your way back?'

She nodded, and began to get her things ready to go. She could not be totally certain whether she saw Sherlock watching her leave the room or not.

X

When Marianne left, John looked over at Sherlock, who had lost himself in case notes again.

'That was good. I'm glad you did that.' John muttered.

'Did what?'

'You were civil to her. You've been nothing but cold to her since she arrived. I'm glad you're finally putting an end to it.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John took his silence as an opportunity to keep talking.

'I still find it interesting you never told me about her.'

'Why would I tell you about her? She was just a little girl who my mother babysat. She was nobody.'

'Well, from the sound of things, she was a lot more to you than that.' 

'What's that supposed to mean?' Sherlock snapped with a hint of venom. 'Are you implying something perverted, John, because she was a little girl when I knew her, if you think that of me, that I would have touched a -'

'God, no! No way, Sherlock. I wasn't implying that at all. God, no. Sorry. I just mean...' John said quickly, very flustered, and choosing his next words wisely. 'I just mean, it's good that you took care of her, that's all I'm saying. It's... I think that was a very good thing of you to do. I'm guessing her family were pretty horrible to her, that's what I'm gathering, and you took her under your wing so she had someone looking out for her. That's an honourable act. And she must have meant a lot to you, and you must have meant a lot to her. That's all I meant. God, of course I don't think you would ever touch a kid, Christ, Sherlock.'

'Good,' Sherlock muttered, no longer listening, glancing back to his papers. 

'So you did take her under your wing? What were her family like? They must have been -'

Sherlock looked up from his case-notes. 'John, it's not my business to impart those details.'

'What?'

'What Marianne endured during her childhood,' he said stoically, eyes on his papers while he spoke, 'it's not my business to go around revealing to everyone.'

'But that's what you do. You look at someone and reveal their life story to everyone in the room, even the sensitive details.'

Sherlock, again, did not respond.

X

Marianne, dressed in a warm cable-knit sweater, tights, a skirt and ankle boots, made her way back from the library on the bus. It was fairly late, around ten at night. She enjoyed looking out the window at the city lights, and how they lit the rain puddles up that had formed on the gravel street. She had a canvas bag of books by her feet, all of which she needed as references for the next chapter in her PHD. It might be of interest to Sherlock, she thought, this next chapter.

Her PHD as a whole focused on the representation of reincarnation and rebirth in the modern age compared to centuries ago. But this particular chapter she was currently writing, related to cases in history where murderers had announced a belief in reincarnation etc, and how the media represented this belief. She thought Sherlock might be interested in this, but then she thought again, and realised he would likely just roll his eyes.

She got off the bus at the corner of Baker Street so she could get the things from the shop John had asked her to get. 

She thought about getting herself something for supper, but couldn't be bothered. There were days when she did not look after her body so much, and went to bed hungry. It didn't have anything to do with her self-image, really. Sometimes she just felt unworthy of taking care of her body, sometimes she just couldn't be bothered to.

She walked quickly from the shop back to Baker Street, as it was raining lightly. Her hair was damp by the time she made her way through the front door.

In the living room, Sherlock was still awake. She reckoned John had already gone to bed. When he worked early in the morning, he tried his best to get to bed before ten.

'Hello,' she said, putting the milk in the fridge.

'You're back late.'

'I had a lot of reading to get done.' She explained.

Sherlock watched her. His attention was drawn to the faint traces of finger-marks on her neck, a week or so old. He could deduce that these fingermarks happened consensually. It matched deductions he had made weeks ago about the type of sex life she had.

She always asked her partner, whoever he was (currently that American imbecile, David) to hurt her in bed. The deduction had made him uncomfortable then and it made him uncomfortable now. It was perfectly normal to be uncomfortable though, wasn't it? Considering he had known this woman when she was just a child. He knew the horror of her youth, what her brother did to her. It was only normal that it would be unnerving to see that she was still damaged by that, still affected, that she asked for pain as a result of it.

If there was one realm Sherlock was not knowledgeable of at all, it was the realm of sex, and so he could not see any other reason why she would ask to be choked and hurt during intercourse other than because she was damaged.

He thought that and kept the thought close to his chest. Like some kind of secret, or was it more like a weapon? Did it allow him to feel superior to her - here was someone who the world had damaged beyond repair? Here was someone less normal than he was. Here was someone completely unadjusted. She was a reckless being who did not belong anywhere, inferior not only to him, but to most people. She was not normal. She was strange and unsettled, and would always be that way. Like an abyss. Because despite all of her spirituality, all of her empathy and kindness and warmheartedness, she was empty. She was not adjusted to the world, everything about her reminded him of the morose feeling you got from looking at the streetlights shine down on a rainy sidewalk. When you looked at Marianne, you got your own depressing reflection staring back.

He shouldn't even be stood in the same room as someone so damaged and off-kilter, let alone live with her. It was bad for one's mind, one's work.

Damaged. Marianne was a damaged flower that looked gentle from the outside, but was probably in fact the kind of glass that when smashed, it cut open your artery and left you irreparable alongside it. 

She had always been that way, even as a child. There was always the sense of something bad about to happen to her, a girl fated for the shadows. He was always trying to stop her from falling into danger, but danger won over every time. It left him tired. She had left him tired, all those years ago. He would not make the same mistake now. Would not let her get close to him. 

'Did you see any more clients?' She asked, pouring herself some red wine and sitting down on the arm-chair opposite him.

He nodded curtly, not looking her way.

'Oh, that's what we're doing. We're going back to the game where you don't speak to me. I got a little bit of warmth this afternoon, but that's it, yes? Good to know. I will play that game too.'

He was about to respond, but felt uncertain of what to say. He merely shrugged and gestured to the wine in her hand. 'Will you be mixing that with ambien tonight?'

It was a comment intended to be an insult, but she answered the question genuinely: 'No, no, I don't think so. A glass of wine, plus how much I've read tonight, should make me sleepy enough as it is.'

A beat of silence passed between them.

He said, 'Fine.'

'I wish you found it easier to be kind to me, Sherlock. You used to be so kind.'

He felt a sudden tightness in his throat. Why? Her open eyes staring at him, her slightly parted lips as she said those words, which were more of a question than a statement really. She was asking him. Asking for his niceness, for the old Sherlock she had grown accustomed to in childhood.

'The version of me you knew doesn't exist anymore. It never did. You created a version of me that wasn't real. I was never _kind_ , I only didn't mistreat you like everyone else in your life.' He spoke darkly. 'I don't have time to be your care-taker anymore.'

'I'm not asking you to be my care-taker. I just imagined that whenever we found each other again, we would be friends. The way you're friends with John. That's all.'

'It's hard to not feel an accountability when you chug sleeping pills so frivolously.'

She shook her head, smiling at his mistake. 'It's not like that. Really, you've picked up the wrong end of the stick with that one, Sherlock. Maybe I rely slightly too much on the ambien to get by, but it's not a serious dependency. A doctor prescribed them for insomnia. The way I use them, it's all safe and legal. It's not a problem. My doctor would have said something if she thought it was an issue.'

'Insomnia?'

She nodded.

He felt the atmosphere in the room change. 'Is that because...' He trailed the sentence off. What he thought to ask was, is the insomnia because of what happened to you, what your brother did to you? But that was a topic he couldn't face. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

Since Marianne had moved in, they had never spoke about the rape she suffered at the hands of her own brother. Marianne never spoke of it because it felt too heavy of a topic to bring up to someone awkward like Sherlock. Plus, she doubted he even cared that much anymore. He was Sherlock Holmes after all - unsentimental. And Sherlock had never brought it up because of his guilt.

He had had the chance to stop it happening to her, when Marianne called him asking for his help all those years ago. Her small child's voice begging him down the line to come and pick her up. But he'd ignored her and went back to his work. He was still haunted, vaguely, in the back of his mind, by that foolish, destructive mistake. How it cost Marianne everything.

He couldn't approach the topic with her now, a decade later, in fear that he would somehow reveal how he could have prevented everything, but chose not to for the sake of his work.

So he kept his distance. From the subject. From her.

'Is that because of what?' She asked, finishing off his question for him.

'Nothing.'

'Fine.' She sighed.

'You should still take a break from the ambien. Try sleeping without it.' He could still advise her, and not get close to her. What had she said a few minutes ago? She said something about why couldn't he treat her the way he treated John.

The answer was out of his reach. Possibly because John was a simple, easy man, whereas she was a different sort of presence entirely - an uncomfortable one. He would like to go back to when she was no longer a part of this home - how much easier things were then. 

She could never be like John, she could never be like Lestrade or Mrs Hudson or anyone else in his life - she was not whole or complete the way they were. She was like a scribble of black pen on a piece of crumpled paper, a drawing that no one could discern, totally unfinished, past salvaging.

It was not her fault, that she was this way. It was just an unfortunate situation, one he could not change.

She was a bad penny, if he believed in such things. 

'Can I ask why you keep pressing me to stop taking the pills? I thought you hated me, or you want me to think you hate me.'

He let that sentence hang in the air, before he conjured his response, saying simply - 'I never said I hated you.'

'You don't like me, though. Or at least, you act like you don't.' He said nothing so she carried on - 'It's like we're strangers. No one would ever guess we'd once relied on each other so much, that we'd once been best friends.'

'Best friends?' He scoffed. 'Marianne, you were a random, maltreated child who my mother used to babysit because she pitied you, and while she was busy, I got stuck with you. That's all.'

'Do you find it easy, the detachment, the callousness?' She responded, not rising to his mean tone.

'It's a more sustainable way of living than the way you live.'

'What does that even mean, Sherlock?'

She was leaning forward now, her eyes delving into him.

He hated the way she stared at him; it made him want to hate her, as a person. He wanted to say something cruel and horrible to her. He wanted to cause that pathetic 'soul' (that was what she believed, wasn't it? That souls existed - _how juvenile_ ) of hers to break, for a moment at least. He was aware that he could do that. He was aware that certain words had the power to hurt her. He decided he would use those words right now.

'It means that you act like a grown woman taking charge of your own life, you act like a free and open spirit,' he said the word 'spirit' with venomous contempt, 'but beneath the deluded hippy-dippy exterior, you're actually nothing but a shell. Crushed pieces of a shell, in fact. If I look past all your apparent gentleness, and all of the religions you've internalised, all of the crystals and tarot cards - if I look past all of that, what I learn is that you're just an unloved little girl play-acting as someone who fits into this world, desperate for someone to tell you you're good enough, to tell you that you'll find your place soon. You think my detachment is an act? Well, I think you're an act. You wish you were someone else, anyone, so long as it's different to who you really are: damaged, hollow, out of place... constantly.'

He sat back, content only for a moment with this deliberately cruel assessment of her. He was slightly short of breath after speaking so fast and so vehemently. The contentment lasted for only the briefest second. Then, he saw the look on her face. It was not that she looked hurt, she looked... disappointed. Not in herself, but in him. The disappointment shifted immediately to hatred. After a long moment of her staring at him like that, with loathing, her face was suddenly neutral again. Balanced and calm. She stood and slowly walked over to his chair. She moved her wine glass so that it was over his head. She tilted it slightly, signalling that she was about to pour the liquid all over him. He closed his eyes, ready to accept it, not flinching.

She scoffed. 'As if you're worth the waste of good wine.' And then she moved the glass away from his head and drained it in one long gulp instead.

He knew how violent his words had been. He was understanding the gravity of them just now, he wasn't sure of the last time he had ever been that cruel to someone. What he had said was so cruel that he even knew of its cruelty - usually when he said something bad, he only knew it was bad because John pointed it out to him.

She left the room before he could begin an apology. All he managed was one word.

'Marianne...'

However, she turned her back and made her way to her bedroom the second her name was uttered.

Sherlock stayed in the front room for hours, telling himself he was staying up so late because of a difficult cold case from last year, but a buried part of him stayed up, expecting Marianne to come back through.

She did not, and he fell asleep on the armchair. At about three in the morning he woke up, and went through to sleep in his room. He could hear the sound of quiet voices, speaking lowly in the room next to his. One was Marianne. The other was David. She must have let him in while Sherlock was asleep in the chair. He ignored them at first, but then the voices turned to heavy breathing, and moaning. They were having sex. Not loudly, but still, something bristled inside Sherlock. He no longer cared to apologise to her. In fact, he'd happily say the same things all over again, for they were true. He got his phone out and sent her a message.

If you're going to keep the residents of this flat awake on a regular basis, you will be evicted.

\- SH

It was five minutes later, after he heard David's audible and pathetic groan, signalling his orgasm, when he received a text back from Marianne.

OK, Sherlock.

\- MG

Sherlock put his phone down to go to sleep then, with a strange sense of something he couldn't explain. He had been right - she was nothing but an abyss, or maybe more like a virus, infecting those around her with the same wrongness and existential uncertainty she felt. It was a strange power, but one he loathed. Whereas he considered John and the others in his life conductors of his electricity - Marianne was just a black hole. Perhaps she possessed her own electricity, yes, but it was buried too far underneath an impassable void. These were the thoughts he forced himself to believe. He did believe them, didn't he? They were true. Weren't they?

This was why she was worth keeping at a distance, now she was back in his life. This was why she had been worth leaving behind, all those years ago.

He believed that... didn't he?

X


	5. Meeting Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Baker Street trio meet the alluring Irene Adler, and Marianne seriously begins to question the nature of her feelings for Sherlock; does she still view him platonically... or has something changed? And when the CIA break into Irene's estate and threaten Marianne at gunpoint, Sherlock is no longer able to act his usual aloof self. The tectonic plates in their relationship are definitely shifting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! Again, please let me know if there's anything you would like to see, or any questions you have. I hope all of you are staying safe out there in this wild world!   
> Song for this chapter: Where Are We Now, by David Bowie

Where are we now?

Where are we now?

The moment you know  
You know, you know

...

As long as there's me  
As long as there's you

_-_ **Where Are We Now, by David Bowie**

After Sherlock's ridiculously callous outburst at Marianne, in which he said such awful things it was difficult to acknowledge it was really him speaking, she had kept herself distant. She was not usually one to do this; whenever people expressed anger or cruelty towards her, she often forgave them easily. Life was much easier, she found, that way. To forget the pain and simply move on.

But living so closely alongside Sherlock Holmes and allowing him to constantly undermine her, it was becoming more difficult than she could stand. She knew, to save her own mind, she would have to stay out of his way.

It was a very strange time to be avoiding him, given that the Baker Street trio were picking up a lot of press attention. Most tabloids were speculating that Marianne was Sherlock's young mistress. There were all sorts of outlandish theories. Some papers even said that she, Sherlock and John were involved in a polyamorous relationship. The consensus generally however, was that Marianne was in some way Sherlock's lover. How funny, she thought, when the truth was - he never so much as even looked her in the eye.

If it was anyone else, it would not hurt so much, but this was Sherlock, for Christ's sake. He was the only person in her whole life who she had ever truly felt close to. Sure, she had lots of friends, but none that she felt utterly connected to the way she and Sherlock had once been. They were the centre of each other's universes once, when she was just a child. He would never admit it now, and he probably wouldn't have admitted it back then either, but it was true. He was a lonely, strange little boy, seen by relatives as inferior to his older brother and seen by the children at school as some sort of freak - the butt of everyone's jokes. People either under-estimated him, or poked fun at him. Meanwhile, she suffered in her own way too. A dead mother, a violent brother, and an oblivious father who was never around to see the abuse Marianne had to put up with. She and Sherlock brought hope into each other's worlds. She took him seriously, and he took care of her. That is what they gave each other.

Mrs Holmes had once told her: 'Our little Sherly doesn't care about much, but he does care about you, little one.'

That's why it pained her so much more now - when Sherlock regarded her with nothing but contempt. The contrast between the old days and the present made her feel sick with nostalgia. She lay awake sometimes, wondering if she'd ever have a friend like that again? Somebody who cared about her so much she could see it in their eyes.

When she looked into Sherlock's eyes now, she saw nothing at all.

It was impossible to avoid him altogether; they did, after all, share the same flat. But she made sure to stay in her room when it was only the two of them in the flat. She even skipped meals a few times in order to stay out of his way. If she got too hungry, she'd wait until she heard him leave and then go and make herself something quick and easy, like a sandwich. When John was home, it was much more comfortable.

She and John had developed a wonderful friendship. It was actually, if she was honest, one of the best things in her life right now.

She was not yet as close to him as she'd like, but they were definitely on the path to that kind of desired closeness.

She told him all about Sherlock's horrible behaviour, and the cruel things he said to her. John assured her he had never known Sherlock to act so strange around anyone before, as he did with her, and that this strangeness was likely because of how much he cared. _'He wants to show it, to go back to the way he was around you all those years ago, but he's afraid to, he's spent so long building up this cold exterior,_ ' John had explained, ' _that's why he's being so much of a dick now, to keep you at arm's length, I'm sure it won't last.'_

Marianne and John often shared bottles of wine together when Sherlock wasn't around. They talked for hours. He showed her his favourite movies and she showed him hers, they talked about things like music and the kind of work they both did. He was interested in her PHD, which always made her feel good, to have someone fascinated in her studies. She expressed her ideas on faith and the afterlife, the potential for past lives, etc at length one night after a couple of glasses. She wasn't drunk, only slightly. She talked for ages and he mainly stared at her. At the time she'd thought he was simply intrigued, but the more she thought about it, she started to worry he was not so much being friendly towards her, but rather - he was hitting on her.

She sincerely hoped not. She really wanted this friendship to blossom into something wholesome and good.

X

Marianne, one morning, was working quietly on her bed. It was a rather cool morning with a harsh wind whipping against the windows. She was wearing a yellow jumper over her dress to keep warm. The only other person in the flat was Sherlock, so she had elected to work in her room today, despite how cold it got in here sometimes.

A sharp knock sounded from her bedroom door. She was surprised. Sherlock wanted to speak to... her? She was sure he was with a client. Why did he want to see her? They hadn't spoken properly since his outburst.

She closed her book and stepped off the bed. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe as she opened it.

'Everything OK?' She asked.

'Will you come with me to Buckingham Palace? Mycroft's lackeys are here now, there's a car outside.' He asked quickly, nonchalantly, as though things were completely normal between them.

She almost laughed at him, but refrained. She simply shook her head. 'I'm sorry, but no.'

She was closing the door on him when he put a hand out to stop it shutting, pulling it open once again. 'What do you mean?'

'I have work to do. Plus, I don't want to go with you.'

'Mycroft has asked specifically that you accompany me.'

'He's asked for me?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Probably has a table of high tea waiting for you by way of reunion.' Sherlock gestured with both of his hands, mimicking his elder brother's pompous nature, which she remembered well. 

'If it's Mycroft who would like me to come, then I'll come.' She said, choosing her words carefully so Sherlock knew she wasn't just following his orders. She wasn't saying yes for him.

She began to put her books and notebooks in a stack on her desk, and took her pink woollen coat and hat from the door. Sherlock watched her as she did all of this, as she moved both of her arms slowly inside her coat, and put the bobble hat on her head.

There was something (dare he say it) fascinating about her movement. It was almost... lyrical. Slow but not in a sloth way, almost like she was underwater. He knew that didn't make sense.

She'd been the same way when she was very young, always operating in a slightly different manner to everyone around her. At a different pace or a different frequency, almost as if she just wasn't of this world. He could relate to that feeling, but his separateness came from his intellectual superiority. She was distinct in a different manner. One foot in this world, one foot inside her own imagination, a place she genuinely inhabited, not just in the typical sense of being a daydreamer, but he believed she genuinely lived inside that imagination of hers. Where her Gods and ghosts and spirits or whatever resided. Quite preposterous, really.

Nonetheless, he has come to realise that perhaps his words the other day were... needlessly harsh. And not all true. She was not a vacuous fake, or unloved, more just alone and afraid. Was that more like it? What did it matter? It was too late to apologise. Words once said, can never really be taken back, he knew that much. Words linger, always. If he apologised, it's not like she would just forget everything he said.

She'd forgive him, yes, because she was that way inclined, but her forgiveness would not erase the incident. There'd still be... guilt. God, he hated that silly little word. How useless guilt was. It amounted to absolutely nothing. How could one rid oneself of it, he thought?

And when it came to Marianne, there was definitely an abundance of guilt inside him. 

Anyway, it wasn't as though anything good could come out of his apology. He'd already made the decision to remain aloof to her, and now that he was living out the reality of such a decision, he had to commit to it. No going back, no wondering if he might feel more at peace if he just showed her the courtesy she was offering him. No option for any of that. He'd made the choice and now it was his to own. He had to face the consequences. Even if that meant coming home sometimes and seeing her and John drinking wine at the kitchen table, seeing how rosy her cheeks were, laughing heartily at something John must have said, knowing that he cannot have that rapport with her - not that he would even want it, he sneered at such a thought. No, this ice between them was satisfactory. It was fine. It would not be feasible, to let her in, to call her friend. He couldn't go back to the way he was, as a young boy. He couldn't go back to the version of himself that she made him: responsible, caring, God, perhaps even... sentimental. Weak. She made him weak, with her trauma and how she always needed some kind of help. Some kind of saviour. He couldn't be that for her, for anyone.

No. Not a chance in hell. 

She reached inside of one of her drawers and put on a scarf that matched her coat and hat.

'Are you ready?' He asked. 

She nodded.

'Let's go.'

He was slightly surprised that she'd not questioned his choice of attire (merely a bedsheet wrapped around him) but then again, he'd treated her with such a disdain since she got here, perhaps she simply didn't care about anything he did anymore. As they drove side by side, silent in the back of the car, for some reason - that thought made him oddly ... hurt. He hadn't realised he'd made a sound, but he must have done because her soft voice (yes, her voice did have a softness, didn't it?) broke the silence.

'What's wrong?'

'Hmm?'

'You breathed a little bit strangely for a second, I was just checking.'

'I'm fine,' he told her, not unkindly.

x

The three Baker Street residents sat bemusedly on the sofa in the middle of Buckingham palace, none of them saying a word. It was a rather... strange situation. This was Buckingham Palace, after all. Marianne was quite relieved that she was the best dressed out of the three. She, at least, looked presentable. Sherlock wore nothing but a bedsheet and John had dirt on his trousers. It must have been from the crime scene Sherlock had sent him to.

It was the doctor who spoke first, breaking the silence.

'Sherlock, are you wearing any pants?'

'No.'

The two men started laughing, and although Marianne was not on the best of terms with Sherlock, she couldn't help it. She laughed as well. It _was_ funny, him on royal property wearing nothing but a bedsheet. As she giggled, she noticed Sherlock catch her eye, and because he had just been laughing, a rare smile was already on his face. She expected the smile to disappear as soon as their gazes met (he was always regarding her with cold eyes and a frown) but for some reason, his smile remained.

He was _really_ smiling at her. She always responded warmly to such sentiments, but because this smile was from Sherlock, who'd made it clear to her she was nothing but a nuisance in his life, she felt destabilised. She gave him a quick grin and then looked away, at the picture on the wall.

Thankfully, the moment did not need to go on for much longer, as it was interrupted by Mycroft and another elegantly suited gentleman entering the extravagant room in which the Baker Street trio were waiting.

Marianne hadn't seen Mycroft since she left London all those years ago, when she was a child. She remembered liking him, even though he was always so patronising to Sherlock. He was always fairly kind to her though.

'Ah, little Marianne, my, how you've grown! The last time I saw that face, my God, you were only about this high.' He gestured a small height with his hand, and then reached out that hand for her to shake. His tone still held the superiority and pomp that she remembered well.

She shook it, grinning. 'Hello, Mycroft. It's lovely to see you again.'

'Lovely to see you, also. Mother always said you had the makings of a beauty queen, it looks like she was right.' He kissed her knuckles in an excessively flamboyant manner. He was always one to affect manners like this - airs and graces. 'Our family was deeply saddened when you left London.'

She nodded. 'I was sad to leave.'

'We were all equally horrified by what happened to you on that sordid night. You poor thing. Sherlock, in particular, was _harrowed_.'

Sherlock cut him off at once, 'Perhaps, dear brother, if you would be so kind as to not subject Marianne to unsolicited reminders of traumatic memories, and instead - address the matter for which we have been brought here. You can start by telling me the name of my client.'

John was watching Sherlock intently. The doctor was evidently intrigued by Mycroft's words, and wanted to see Sherlock's reaction. There was so much that was a mystery to John, regarding Sherlock and Marianne. What had Mycroft meant by that 'sordid night'? And why had it harrowed Sherlock so deeply? John had always thought he knew Sherlock better than anybody, but clearly that was not the case. There were new layers to the detective now, and they were being peeled slowly away. He was desperate to know the truth.

Marianne couldn't decide if Sherlock's interruption was a protective act. Was he sparing Marianne from Mycroft's insensitive probing? Or was his interruption instead an act of self-preservation? Was he stopping Mycroft from explaining any further how Sherlock had been _harrowed_ by what happened to her? Mycroft actually said that word - _harrowed_.

She sometimes forgot that Sherlock had been there that night. After her brother's brutal attack on her, Sherlock had been there in the back of the ambulance before it took her to the hospital. He'd seen her, bloodied dress and all, he'd held her while she hugged him, her small form trembling. Did he remember any of that? Had it actually upset him?

Since she'd come back into his life, his indifference towards her had led her to believe he'd either forgotten that night, or didn't care. But here was the truth, apparently. Mycroft said Sherlock had been ... _harrowed_.

'If you will not give me the name of my client, Mycroft, I'll be saying good day to you. I deal with enough anonymity in my cases as it is. I don't need it from clients as well.' He stood up and made a few steps towards the door, but Mycroft stood on the back of his bedsheet, causing it to fall to the floor.

In a brief moment before Sherlock caught the sheet, Marianne was able to glimpse more of Sherlock's body than she had ever seen before. His strong back muscles, a brief flash of his backside. He was much more toned than she expected, and she felt a shudder of attraction in the pit of her stomach. No - that was strange. She couldn't be attracted to him, that was inappropriate. Wasn't it? Yet here she was... admiring the bare skin of his shoulder as he sat back down between herself and John. She found her mind drifting away from the current conversation, and occupying a sexual territory.

She thought that she would like to watch Sherlock have sex. It didn't matter if it was not with her. She would like to see him have sex with anyone. She thought that would be something beautiful to behold. She imagined the sounds he might make, the way his skin would glimmer with the sheen of sweat, his strong hands in somebody's hair. It was these thoughts, she knew, that made her 'weird'. People said that about her a lot. 'A little odd', was a phrase often attributed to her. She tried not to let it bother her. One cannot help having thoughts, and perhaps they were not 'weird', just different. 

She tuned back into the conversation. Mycroft was showing them pictures of a dark-haired lady called Irene Adler. 

'She's beautiful,' Marianne commented, looking at the picture.

'Quite so,' Mycroft carried on. 'And dangerous.'

Mycroft explained the images that Irene Adler had in her possession, compromising photographs including a member of the royal family. He explained that Irene was in fact a dominatrix.

'Don't be alarmed,' he told Sherlock, 'It's to do with sex.'

'Sex doesn't alarm me.' Sherlock snipped back rather quickly. 

'How would you know?' 

Marianne could see the expression on Sherlock's face change imperceptibly. He looked embarrassed. She'd always guessed he was a virgin, and this was proof, the slight tightening of his jaw. Shame. He was embarrassed. She did not feel sorry for him but more annoyed at Mycroft for speaking to him in such a derogatory way. How quickly things change, she thought. A couple of hours ago she was barely speaking to the great consulting detective, and now here she was, annoyed on his behalf.

'It looks like Ms Adler has the royal family exactly where she wants them. It doesn't seem like there is anything you can do to stop her. Why don't you just give her the money?' Marianne said, changing the subject for the sake of Sherlock, who still looked a tad embarrassed.

'She doesn't want any money.' Mycroft said.

'Oh,' Sherlock clapped his hands together, suddenly interested. 'It's a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in the whole of Europe.'

'Indeed.'

'That's a case I can get behind.'

'I thought as much,' Mycroft smiled.

'John, come on.' Sherlock said, standing. 'And Marianne, if you don't have to get back to your work?'

'What?'

'Belgravia. Ms Adler's estate. We're going there right now. I know how to get those photos back.'

'Oh,' Marianne stood up. 'Of course. If you don't mind me tagging along.'

Sherlock regarded her for a second. He shook his head. 'Why would I mind?'

Mycroft chuckled amusedly, 'I'm sure it's just like the good old days. After all, Marianne, as far as I can remember, you were the first (and youngest) assistant Sherlock ever had, aged only six years old, weren't you?'

Marianne smiled. 'I think I drove him insane. I'll hopefully be more competent this time.'

The older Holmes brother went to shake her hand again, in farewell. 'Good to see you again, child.'

'She's not a child, Mycroft.' Sherlock snapped. 'I'll see you tomorrow with the photos.'

X

On the car ride over to Belgravia, Sherlock explained the plan. They were going to disorientate Irene, let her think she had the upper hand first, and so it would be easier to catch her off guard later. Marianne was the one who would enter the building first.

'If we make her feel inferior, her defences will be down, she'll be unaware when the fire alarm goes off, and she won't even think before giving up the location. Ms Adler is evidently a woman who thrives on the spotlight. She thrives on always being the superior woman in the room. If she feels inferior to Marianne, she'll give herself up without realising.'

'I don't know if this plan has much chance of working, Sherlock.' She told him.

'What? Why?'

'Well, I doubt someone like Irene's going to be intimidated by someone like me.'

'Nonsense. She needs the bravado to win men over, the cuffs, whips, heels, lipstick, etc etc. You don't need any of that. She'll pick up on that and immediately begin competing.' 

Marianne wasn't listening to the rest of what he had to say. She was too caught up on his words already. _You don't need any of that_. Was he... was that a compliment? She tried to put it out of her head, not get too wrapped up in the semantics of Sherlock bloody Holmes. Instead, she prepared mentally for this meeting with Irene. She was feeling slightly nervous.

X

In Belgravia, Marianne found herself in a position beyond her wildest imagination.

There she was, pretending to be a lost tourist ( _put on a Northern accent,_ Sherlock had advised her) looking for directions.

The plan was for Irene to see right through the disguise immediately, letting her feel like she had the upper hand, so that it would be easier to take that supposed power away later. Meaning she never had the upper hand to begin with, only thought she did. It was quite genius, actually, Marianne thought. She had made sure to compliment Sherlock for it.

And now, there she sat, inside Irene's home with a folded up copy of the London A-Z in her lap, staring confusedly at the naked Irene, who had just entered the room now, donning nothing but Louboutin heels.

'Well, well, I didn't expect Mr Holmes would send in his little mistress first. He must be slipping.'

'Pardon?' Marianne said.

'What was your alias again? That you're a tourist, looking for directions back to King's Cross? Really? Is that the best you could have come up with?'

'Um...' Part of the plan was to act disappointed that Irene had guessed the disguise, so Marianne just frowned and muttered 'shit'.

'Yes. Indeed. A terrible first move. I thought Mr Holmes would have better assistants. I sure hope the Doctor is more competent.'

'He is.'

'But you... I can see why he keeps you around, if not for your abilities, but _that_ face.' Irene walked closer to her, examining her fully. 'You really are lovely, aren't you? A face to die for. And not a bad body either, hidden under that ugly sweater, even if it _is_ a little on the scrawny side. Sherlock must enjoy what he sees.'

'I'm just his flatmate.' Marianne explained politely, allowing Irene to circle her.

'That's not what the tabloids say.'

'Tabloids lie.'

'Indeed they do.'

'Why did he send you in first? That's what I would love to know.'

'For the photographs, that's obvious.'

'Yes, it is obvious, but my question is,' Irene sat down beside her, her naked body leaning up against her. Marianne did not feel uncomfortable. She would not let herself. If she planned to assist John and Sherlock on future cases, she had to get used to strange situations like this one. 'Why _you_ first, when I was able to see through you so easily?'

'I don't know.'

'Maybe he wanted to give you a chance to prove yourself.'

Marianne shrugged. 'Maybe.'

'You failed him.' Irene smirked.

'I guess so.'

'You don't exactly seem like Sherlock's type, I must say. I've researched you, you know. All three of you. The traumatised army doctor, the virginal detective... and then there's you. The daydreaming bible-basher. I can see what Sherlock gets out of having John around, but you, I don't see what you could possibly bring to the table.'

'I'm not a bible-basher.'

'No, but you're into that vein of thought, though. You're ... whimsy.' Irene said the word with a mocking contempt. 'The opposite of our detective outside. A man of logic. Surely, he sees you as a waste of space, no?'

'You're only going to get inside my head if I let you, Irene.'

Marianne was surprised at her own fortitude then. She had not seen herself as someone who was able to build walls, to stop people from getting inside of her head. She mainly viewed herself as vulnerable, open and transparent to everyone she met. However, in that moment, she realised that was not entirely true. There was a part of her that could put up a wall when needed, could stop the probing of others. There was a part of her, a secret part, that no matter how giving and receptive she was in her communication with others, they could still never get to that secret part of her mind. It was something they had to earn.

The sound of footsteps approaching let her know that Sherlock was inside.

'And that should be our man.' Irene winked.

Sherlock, upon entering the room, was surprised. He immediately shied away from Irene's nakedness, and acted rather confused. Then Marianne realised it wasn't acting. He was genuinely embarrassed by the situation. She had guessed Sherlock was a virgin, but she didn't think a naked woman, especially someone like Irene, would befuddle him this much. 

'Oh, it's always difficult to remember an alias when you've had a fright, Mr Holmes.'

'Ms Adler, I presume.'

'Of course.' She grinned, moving toward him and snapping the vicar's collar off that he had been wearing. 'Don't worry, your little mistress already blew your cover.'

Sherlock looked at Marianne with annoyance. She knew this was just part of the plan, but she still looked down ashamedly at the floor. 

'She's not my mistress.' Sherlock answered curtly.

'Who is she, then? Why keep her around if she's a liability?'

'I'm not here to discuss who I share lodgings with.'

'No, you're here for the photographs.' Irene sat back down next to Marianne, who was busy staring out of the window.

She hated being here. She hated it. Something about this situation made her feel incredibly small. Perhaps it was Irene. Did she find Irene intimidating? It was probably more to do with Sherlock. Here he was, paying this glamorous woman attention, a woman who could probably keep up with him on an intellectual level far more than she ever could. A woman who didn't daydream all throughout the day, didn't study ghosts and spirits for a living like some kind of zealot. Meanwhile, Marianne was just a child on the inside, wasn't she? One that Sherlock would never learn to respect. That's how he saw her. A gullible fool.

And why did his approval matter so much, anyway?

She wished she could fill a room with her presence. She wished she could speak in the way Irene was speaking, or even in the way Sherlock spoke. But she felt so often like she had little to say. An empty space inside of her.

'Marianne.' Sherlock interrupted her thoughts.

'Sorry?'

'Oh God, a daydreamer too. Seriously, Mr Holmes, you need to vet your assistants better.' Irene chuckled.

'The hiker with the bashed in head. That's where we're at now, Marianne.' Sherlock said in a deliberately patronising sing-song voice, the kind you use on a child who hasn't been paying attention. 'Can you keep your head out of the clouds for one minute and pay attention to what's happening in the here and now, please?'

She wasn't sure if his tone was deliberately biting, as part of the plan to overthrow Irene, but she hated it regardless. Hated the way his piercing eyes bore into her. The way he seemed to be saying _worthless_ with just one glare.

'I'm sorry. What about it?'

Sherlock went on an explanation of the case, to which Irene seemed to be hanging on every word, eager to prove herself. It was at this point Marianne became aware of Irene's interest in Sherlock extending beyond the matters at hand. She wanted him, sexually, romantically - Marianne wasn't quite sure which, but Irene definitely _wanted_ him. She pictured the two of them having sex. Irene, of course, on top. If Sherlock were to ever have sex, he'd probably want it to be with someone like Irene. A dominatrix. Someone to tantalise and intrigue him totally. 

Marianne could never be that kind of woman. She asked all of her boyfriends to tie her up and degrade her, those kinds of things. The exact opposite of someone powerful and alluring, like Irene.

It was at that point that the fire alarm sounded. John had done his job then, this was all part of the plan. Marianne paid close attention to Irene's eyes, as did Sherlock.

'Fireplace.' The two of them said together.

'Excuse me?' Irene said, suddenly panicked.

'Ah, you were never on top, Ms Adler, which must be a first for you.' Sherlock quipped.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, really, this is your fault for underestimating your opponents. Did you really think I'd send one of my best men - sorry, woman -' He was gesturing to Marianne. '-in with such a transparent disguise?'

Marianne smiled, triumphant. Is that how he saw her? One of his best men/women.

'No, no, all part of the plan. You should have picked up on that. Fatal error. I sent Marianne in with a deliberately see-through disguise to the effect of letting you think you were on top. All the more easier to fool you later on.'

'And how exactly have you fooled me?' The fear was clear on Irene's face. She was no longer wearing that same cocky grin.

'In the sound of a fire alarm, a woman looks towards her children. If she's childless, she looks towards her spouse. You, you have neither of those things, and so you look towards what matters most in this world to you. Your photographs, or as you put it, your protection. And they're in the fireplace. You showed us yourself.' He walked towards it, pressed beneath the mantle and a safe appeared. 'Now, all we need is the code.'

Irene smirked, like the upper hand was hers once more. 'I already told you.'

Before the conversation could continue any further, the door burst open. In came a number of armed men, one was holding John firmly, before pushing him to the floor and putting a gun to the back of his head.

'What the hell?' Marianne gasped, looking to Sherlock. He seemed to have no clue what was happening either. A quick glance at Irene and she looked equally frightened.

Two men grabbed Irene and Marianne and pushed them to the floor, guns to the backs of their heads too.

'Arms behind your heads now, all of you. Mr Holmes, we're the CIA, and we kindly ask you to enter the code into the safe now.'

'I don't know the code.' Sherlock answered bluntly.

'We were listening. She said she told you.'

'Well if you'd been listening properly, you'd know that she actually didn't. Ask her.'

'She also knows the code that sets off the burglar alarm and calls the police. We've learned not to trust this woman.'

'I don't know how many times I'm going to have to repeat myself, gentlemen, I don't know the code. End of story.' Sherlock sighed.

'Mr Holmes, let's make this easy for you. If you don't give us the code on the count of three, we're going to shoot your pretty little girlfriend in the back of the head.'

The man holding Marianne down took the safety off his gun and pulled at her ponytail so that she was down on her hands and knees. She could feel the gun even more firmly pressed into the back of her skull.

'I don't know the code, leave her alone!' Sherlock's tone was completely different now. It was dripping in panic. He was shouting, his face had lost all composure. She had never seen him like this before, not in her entire life. 'I don't know the code, she does, ask her!' He pointed to Irene.

'On the count of three, I want you to blow Miss Gleeson's brains right out of her head. _One_.'

'I don't know the code!' Sherlock was shouting even louder now. He'd dropped his hands, and he was stepping forward. Marianne could see, as his arms fell from his head, that his hands had begun to shake. 'I told you I don't know it, I can't give it to you! Stop! Now!

' _Two_. Get ready to see your girl bite the dust, Mr Holmes.'

'I don't know it, please! Stop!'

Marianne, who had remained calm throughout this entire exchange, breathing in and out slowly, looked up at her long-time friend. Her Sherlock. _Her_ Sherlock, who had shown her so much kindness throughout the lonely chasm of her childhood, who had offered her advice and refuge every time her brother hurt her. Her Sherlock...

No matter how he treated her now, no matter how much loathing he directed her way, here he was, adamant that she stay alive. Panicked, frantic, desperate, as he bargained for her life - proving that he _did_ care after all. He cared a lot, by the looks of things.

She looked up at him, and caught his eye. She mouthed with a gentle smile - _it's OK._ Meaning, it's OK that he didn't know the code. It's OK that he couldn't save her. And it was. It was OK. If this was it, well, she was ready to go. It had been a brutal life, full of torment and abuse and loneliness. There wasn't much she would miss. She closed her eyes. She hoped that the next life would be kinder.

The last image she held tenderly in her mind was of her mother. Her mother, who she had only seen in photographs. She hoped that whatever world was waiting on the other side, her mother would be the first to greet her there.

But just before the American could say the word 'three', signalling her execution, Sherlock shouted: 'Wait, wait, I've figured it out.' The relief in his voice was palpable. Colour had completely drained from him and his expression was one of pure dread. 

'Excellent.' The American said, delighted.

'Tell your man that's holding Marianne to take his finger off the trigger and then I'll put in the code.'

'You're in no position to ask anything of us, Holmes.'

'Tell him to take his finger off the trigger, _now_.' There was something threatening in Sherlock's tone. Something menacing and dark. A deep protectiveness that had suddenly been rattled, a protectiveness stemming all the way back to when he was a young boy.

' _Fine_. Mike, take your finger off the trigger.'

'Good.' Sherlock nodded, and walked towards the fireplace. His voice had returned to normal again. It was hard to believe that only seconds ago, he had been so uncharacteristically afraid.

The next few minutes passed in quite a blur. Sherlock typed the code into the safe, and it opened. Sure enough, there was a camera phone inside. However, he did not hand it over to the Americans as promised. He said the code word, _Vatican cameos_ , which he'd briefed Marianne and John on in the car, and just like that, Sherlock ducked, narrowly avoiding a bullet from the CIA, one of whom John had now knocked unconscious with his gun. Marianne was able to disarm her man by catching him unaware, elbowing him in his crotch. The surprise of it caused him to drop his gun and she caught it, hitting him across the face, his jaw in fact. One of his teeth flew out of his mouth as she did this. She looked at it in surprise; she hadn't been meaning to hit him that hard. Perhaps the adrenaline from having a gun to her head was finally catching up. He collapsed to the floor in a heap.

'Jesus, did you knock his teeth out?' John asked, grinning, standing up and brushing his jeans, walking over to her.

'Tooth. Just one. I didn't mean to, I was just,' she demonstrated what she had been trying to do with the gun, 'trying to knock him out, but I must have aimed too low. He's not going to come back and take my teeth while I sleep, is he?'

She was asking this question genuinely, suddenly horrified and intrigued. She had heard horror stories about covert American assailants, what they did to those who wronged them. She had wide eyes as she looked at John for an answer. He seemed to find her expression highly funny,

John laughed. 'You're funny, Marianne. Don't worry, you've just seen too many American spy movies. I don't think Sherlock will let them get near you again anyway.'

John said the last part with a wink.

He was referring to Sherlock's uncharacteristically stressed-out reaction earlier, wasn't he? So John had noticed it too. She wasn't imagining things. Sherlock _had_ really seemed to care about her life. Marianne felt strangely at peace. There was so much calm washing over her. It was all an act then, his meanness. She knew for sure, now. There was no doubting it.

Sherlock was finishing off his American opponent, by checking through his pockets for identification. He finally found one and slipped it into his own pocket. He then made his way over to where she stood with John, the two of them conversing fondly.

Sherlock spun Marianne round, gripping her by her shoulders. He scanned her up and down. What was he looking for? An injury? 

'Are you all right?' He asked, his tone solemn and immediate.

She nodded.

He was still gripping her shoulders, a little too hard. She wanted to wriggle free, but she quite enjoyed his attention right now.

'Marianne, I asked are you all right?' He snapped.

'Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine, I'm OK. What's wrong?' She did wriggle free now, his grip becoming finally _too_ much.

'What's wrong?' He scoffed. 'Well, that man was about to blow your head off, perhaps that's what's wrong.'

'I'm fine. He didn't hurt me. I did knock his tooth out, though.' She smiled, and then frowned - should she be smiling? Was that twisted? She decided it was fair to rejoice in having knocked that man's tooth out, since he _was_ about to shoot her in the head. A tooth / her life. The scales tipped in her favour. She would not feel bad for one silly tooth. She went back to smiling.

Sherlock didn't smile, however. He shook his head. 'I shouldn't have asked you to come, my mistake.'

'What? Because I knocked his tooth-'

His voice seemed resolute, even irritated. She could not decide if he was irritated with her, or himself. 'I couldn't care less about his tooth, Marianne, I shouldn't have asked you to come because you almost died on my watch. I put you in danger. My mistake. It won't happen again.'

'Well, why is it all right for John to come along, but not for me?'

'Because John's a soldier, Marianne. You're a civilian, a young girl, a student. Next time, you'll stay at home with your books.'

She wanted to argue against him further. He was being ridiculous. She had been in danger, yes, but she'd reacted to it so calmly you would not even think she had even been in danger. She had expected praise, to be honest, for how unperturbed she was in the face of such a threat. 

She didn't say anything else on the matter. She knew now was not the best time. Later, she'd bring it up with him later, when he was in a different headspace, perhaps a headspace that was willing to engage and actually listen. If such a headspace for Sherlock Holmes actually existed.

For now, she simply said. 'At least tell me I did a good job with the tooth. I am quite proud of that. In all fairness - I'm five foot two and I've not only knocked unconscious, but also, broken the front tooth, of a six foot something, top-tier CIA agent.'

His face turned from stony and impassive, to beholding the smallest of grins. Before turning to deal with Irene, Sherlock rolled his eyes, though only in jest, and said, 'You did a good job with the tooth.'

X

Events at Belgravia took a turn indeed. One moment Sherlock had possession of Irene's camera phone, while John and Marianne were checking on the housemaid - Kate - who had been knocked unconscious, and in the next moment - Irene had stole the phone and drugged Sherlock, left him struggling in a heap on the ground.

Marianne and John both rushed to him, while Irene was balancing on a sash on the windowsill. She explained the nature of the sedative, that Sherlock would be unconscious for a day or so, but all would be fine in the end. There was a red lipstick mark on his cheek, where she must have kissed him.

'See you soon, my dears.' She said, before disappearing out of the window.

Sherlock was a tall and deceptively muscular man, so it was very difficult for John and Marianne to haul him up when he was barely conscious. His lack of motor functioning meant that he was more like a dead-weight. But still, somehow, the two of them managed to bring him up into a standing position as he murmured nonsensical words, and flailed around like a baby bird. He was not quite unconscious yet, thus they could hold him up beneath his arms, one of them on either side of him, and guide him to the car. He was barely walking, if it were not for them both he'd have probably collapsed, but they managed to get him into the back of the car that Mycroft had sent.

It was uncomfortable, seeing Sherlock so achingly vulnerable like this. Marianne had never seen him this physically weak before, this dependent. Sherlock Holmes and the word dependent did not belong in the same sentence, but nevertheless, here he was, in the back of a taxi, drugged up to his eyeballs on Irene's sedative. His head kept lolling forward and John or Marianne, sat on either side of him, would push it back again, to avoid him hurting his neck. He still hadn't blacked out yet, and kept babbling random words.

When they turned a sharp corner in the road, Sherlock's body slipped sideways despite his seatbelt, and Marianne pushed him gently back to where he had been. 

'It's OK,' She explained as he groaned. 'Just moving you.'

John was about to say something, some random piece of conversation about the day they'd just had, when Sherlock's voice interrupted.

'Mar...anne.' He could not quite get her whole name out, but he managed two syllables. 

'Yes?' She asked.

'Mar...anne.'

He said again, and then blacked out finally, fully out cold now.

'Was he... what do you think he was he trying to say?' She asked John.

'Your name.'

'I know. But what else?'

John shrugged. 'God knows with him.'

Marianne smiled in agreement, resting her head against the headrest. 'Probably wanted to tell me off for something, knowing him.'

John laughed, though his face became solemn as he leaned forward to look at her. 'He does care about you, you know. The way he reacted back there, when you were in danger, that's not usually how he behaves. He wouldn't flip out that way for anyone.'

X

After about twenty-four hours, Sherlock roused. He found himself in his bed wearing the same clothes from yesterday. He checked in all of the pockets for Irene's camera phone, but couldn't find it. He went through to the front room.

'Irene took her phone back?'

John, who was reading a newspaper on the armchair, turned around. 'Finally awake? Yes. Irene took her phone back. Drugged you, as well, while she was at it.'

'Obviously.'

'Pretty strong. You were completely out of it. Marianne and I had to drag you back here and put you into bed.'

Sherlock ignored him. He was looking around the room for an entrance point. He had deduced that somehow, Irene had managed to enter the flat while everyone was sleeping. That's why he had his coat back, that's why his phone had been used. He hadn't needed to even check it to know that someone had used his phone. A phone is like an extension of oneself in this day and age - you know it so well, you can tell when it has been tampered with. At least Sherlock could anyway.

'A simple thank you, that's probably what most people would say.' John continued, but Sherlock still wasn't paying him any attention. He was examining the window sill.

'I'll text Marianne.' John sighed. 'She's went to get some shopping in, the fridge is empty. She asked me to text her if there were any signs of you waking.'

'Hmm.' Sherlock remained vaguely disinterested. 'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why did she ask you text her if there were signs of me waking?'

John laughed. 'Oh, I don't know, maybe because she's a human being.' He rolled his eyes, getting out his phone and sending the text. 'It's not abnormal to care about your friends, Sherlock.'

'Hmm. _Friend_. Funny word.' Sherlock flopped down in the armchair.

'Oh, don't start all this again.'

'Start what?'

'All the coldness against Mar. It's just your way of deflecting how much you actually care. That's clear to everyone, so you can just drop the act, please, it's fooling no one. It's not fair on her, and I find it uncomfortable too. We have enough unease on our cases, without you making this home an uneasy place to live as well.'

' _Mar_?' Sherlock laughed sardonically. 'What, you two have little short-hand names for each other now? How lovely.'

'Lots of people call her that, actually. You'd know if you ever paid her any attention, instead of acting like she's a fly you want to swat.'

Sherlock took the paper that John had place down on the coffee table. He scanned the front page, and, after finding every headline on there entirely inane, he threw it behind his shoulder, missing the bin completely.

'You said her name.'

'What?' Sherlock looked over at the Doctor.

'When you were falling unconscious, you kept saying Marianne's name. Or trying to say it.' John explained, with something like a wry smile on his lips.

'Considering she was one of the people in my immediate vicinity, I don't think that's anything extraordinary, John, do you? Most people after being given a sedative call out everything they can see in front of them. _You_ should know that, Doctor.'

John simply chuckled, in a self-satisfied sort of way, which Sherlock loathed. He stood up and walked through to the bathroom. 'I'll be showering now.' He called behind him.

As the cool water ran down his spine, bringing him back to life again, removing the sweat and grime of a full twenty four hours spent in a feverish haze, Sherlock could picture only one thing. Not the syringe that had punctured his arm, not Irene's face as she dangled the camera phone in front of him, no - what Sherlock's mind conjured, was another picture entirely.

Of a young woman, with a gun pressed to her temple. A countdown on her life had begun, and instead of being afraid of her oncoming death, she didn't seem to mind at all.

At first he had thought it was as simple as just plain bravery. Marianne was a brave young girl who could keep calm in the face of danger. But the more he thought about it - the more disturbing conclusions he arrived at. Perhaps she was not afraid to die, because her life did not matter much to her in the first place. What if she wanted the man to fire the bullet?

What kind of reckless idiot was she, he thought to himself, looking up at the stream of water pouring down on him, clearing soap from his eyes. She was a liability. A pit. A black hole of trouble and danger. Nothing about her time here at Baker Street could ever come to any good. Yet, there was something... inexplicable... something he could not name, that pulled him towards her... no, he shook his head firmly. He had no idea where that road of thought would lead, and he did not want to entertain it. He finished washing himself, and turned off the shower. 

Outside, light rain began to fall.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback would be much appreciated. It really motivates me to write more. I'd love to hear your thoughts, questions, or your ideas for where to go next!


	6. Until She's Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marianne and John meet up in Soho after their respective Christmas parties, and Marianne drunkenly confides in John about her traumatic past. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Sherlock is wide awake at 221b Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter in which I get to indulge in Sherlock's tenderness for her. While it has been tempting to make Sherlock soft and warm and receptive in earlier chapters, I thought it would perhaps feel out of character. His tenderness towards Marianne needed to feel earned. I hope this first glimmer of warmth is well worth the wait. It's the beginning of something huge, a shift that will only grow.
> 
> As ever, please let me know what your thoughts are in the comments. If there's anything you'd like to see, don't hesitate to let me know either. I'd be open to all of your ideas and I could be willing to incorporate them. All you have to do is ask!
> 
> Content warning - past rape mentioned.
> 
> Song for this chapter: Alone in the Dark by Will Cookson

_I'll wait up until you're home dear_   
_I'll shine a light in the dark_

_Don't leave me alone here_   
_Amongst the stars_

_Can't fight the dawn_   
_Can't ride the storm_   
_Can't carry on_   
_Without you anymore_

**_\- Will Cookson, Alone in the Dark_ **

Marianne was drunk. She wore a green dress that was low-cut, revealing her ribs and the tanned skin of her chest. She used to be so self-conscious of her small breasts, envying other women with larger ones, but now she was quite comfortable with them, perhaps even fond. She had a strange relationship with her body. She had periods where she loved it, and then periods when she hated it.

She was sat around the table with all of her peers from the university. And John Watson was there too.

Marianne and John's Christmas parties had fallen on the same day. They had agreed to meet up in a small pub in Soho, and John had came alone. All of his colleagues were far too old or tired for Soho, but Marianne and her peers were all PHD students. Young and full of life. They loved staying out right through to the early hours, drinking Jager and tequila, laughing and talking.

John was getting along very well with Marianne's peers. They all seemed to like him, which didn't surprise Marianne; John was a very endearing man.

'So, what's all this in the papers, eh?' One of her friends, Rhonda, asked John. 'With you two and the detective blokes? They're saying some strange things about you three.'

'Well, papers spread mistruths.' John said, stumbling over his words a little. He, as well, was very drunk by this point.

He had felt a little out of place to begin with. He hadn't been out in Soho since he was a student himself. He was worried when Marianne first texted him to join her: 'Come to Soho! Me and my friends have just got here. We're at Revolution.'

He knew Revolution was a vodka bar often populated with younger people, sweaty and dancing. They surely wouldn't him hanging around, would they? Marianne was just being polite - she was too polite, too nice. Surely, she didn't want him coming along and ruining her evening.

He had texted her this: 'Think I'm just going to head home, Mar. Have a good night and text me if you need anything.'

He wasn't yet drunk at that point. She had texted back right away: 'John Watson! Please come! I'll buy you all of the tequilas and Jager bombs in sight. I miss you!!!!!!!!'

He could tell from the way she had texted that she was drunk. He sighed, and texted back: 'I'm sure you don't want an old bloke like me hanging around you all night.'

She had called him then. 

'John, please!' She squealed, giggling. She was a lot drunker than he had thought.

'Marianne, are you sure? You're out with all of your friends. I'll just be a downer on your night -'

'John!' She laughed. 'You're one of my best friends. Ever, ever, ever.' She sang down the phone. 'Please come. I'll buy you a drink. I'll dance with you to Wham and all my favourite Christmas songs.'

He relented, grinning. A deep part of him was beginning to grow excited. 'Fine, fine, fine.'

'Are you coming?'

'Yes, yes. I'll come now. I'm waiting for a cab.' He was still smiling at her tone, which seemed excited and full of liveliness.

He'd never say this to her (partly because she was so young, and pretty, and completely out of his league) but he had grown an undeniable attraction to Marianne. He found himself dressing a little smarter since she moved in. He asked her for coffee and sandwiches downstairs at Speedy's more often than was probably normal. And when he told her stories about Afghanistan, he tried to make himself out to be as heroic as possible. He knew this was something he had to keep to himself; a private secret. It would tarnish their friendship if she knew. He didn't want that. It was so refreshing to have somebody open, generous and heartful around the flat - she was a stark contrast to Sherlock. Marianne provided a little bit of gentleness to 221b, and if he went and made a move on her, she might feel uncomfortable. Plus, he felt that if he ever did express any desire for Marianne, Sherlock wouldn't react to it well. He was strangely protective of her, John had noticed, while at the same time, maintaining a cruel air. John couldn't comprehend it fully. Not yet at least. But then again, what was there about Sherlock Holmes that was easily comprehensible? 

Anyway, here he was now. In Soho, at a vodka place full of people half his age. And he was drunk, not as drunk as Marianne, but still - fairly drunk. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten this intoxicated.

Her friends were asking him many questions about his life, his time as a soldier, his own university days. He was used to long and boring conversations with colleagues about the woes of middle-age. But these people - just like Marianne - were full of newness, hope and a youth he had not tasted in years. He found he was acting a little bit, trying to appear 'cooler' than he really was. God, did people still use that word? 'Cool'. He was so out of touch.

'Marianne a good flatmate?' One of the boys asked. 'She not keep you up with all her Buddhist mantras and whatnot?' He was laughing in jest and so was Marianne.

John laughed too. 'Marianne's a great girl. The greatest, in fact.'

She put her arm around his shoulder and squeezed him. He looked down and took a drink, trying not to blush.

X

Sherlock was still awake. It was past midnight now and he could feel his eyes growing heavy. He'd been up at the crack of dawn working on a cold case. He was going over the notes now, even though he'd figured everything out hours ago.

Marianne and John were out at their respective Christmas parties, and there were some plans to meet up afterward, he could remember them talking about it.

Marianne did try to invite Sherlock, even though she had likely known he wouldn't accept the offer. She was just polite like that - probably too polite for her own good. Foolish, he thought, soft-hearts like that. They would inevitably be crushed by the world. In fact, Marianne was the least self-preservational person he knew. She did nothing to cover up her vulnerability, or to harden herself. He pointed that out to her regularly. John told him off. Told him it was an admirable quality in her, her kindness. Sherlock thought it was not so much admirable, but stupid.

He glanced over to her bedroom door. She had not fully closed it.

He knew he should not peek inside, but he was bored and the only other thing that would entertain him right now would be cigarettes and he had been doing so well not smoking. Thus, it had to be Marianne's room. The cigarettes were a fine excuse. He stood up from the sofa and walked inside.

Why was he in here? Why did he care? John often left the flat for hours on end, and Sherlock never bothered to have a look inside _his_ room. So - why Marianne's? He tried not to think too much about it. It was probably something as simple as this - John was a simple man. Everything you wanted to know about him, you could get with a couple of glances. Marianne, however, she had always been unfathomable, no matter how open she always tried to be. She operated at a strange frequency, in a dream world as such, one he could not occupy. Not that he would ever want to. It was a pathetic way to live... still, it... it fascinated him. He might as well admit it. A simple, harmless fascination.

He switched the light on and looked around slowly, with some sense of nervousness he couldn't explain. As if he was in search of something he couldn't name, something he was both afraid, and desperate to find. This was lack of sleep making him think this way, it had to be. 

In her bedside drawer, there was a tray full of jewellery, a box of condoms, a zip-up bag filled with hair ties and clips, boxes of incense sticks, tampons.

He was drawn to the condoms and the tampons, strangely. He glossed his fingers over the boxes. It was strange for him to imagine her as a fully-grown woman, with a body that worked in such a way. She had sex (with that idiot David), she bled monthly, she had breasts now (though small) and womanly curves. She was no longer the child he had had to look after day in, day out - the odd little girl at the end of the road. She was a fully grown woman with an adult body, desires, a whole life that didn't include him anymore. A strange sense of discomfort settled inside of his belly.

He moved over to her desk and looked through some of the drawers there. Her notebooks were heaving: writings he didn't have time for now, meticulous study notes, her degree certificate. First class. Of course. She was always a bookworm. A graduation photo with her father. He felt his stomach turn at the sight of that pathetic man, and threw the photo back in the drawer. Next, he picked up another picture. He hardly believed she had kept hold of this. It was a picture of Marianne and Sherlock, when she was only very young. His mother had took this photograph. On the back of the picture, he noticed her handwriting: me and my best friend, and then she had drawn a picture of a flower. She must have done that when she was young, because the writing was child-like.

He realised how long he had been staring at the photograph. At least ten minutes had passed. He was engrossed. The next thing he realised was the small smile that seemed to be hanging from his lips, a smile imbued with a hint of sadness.

He thought for a moment, why had he not just welcomed her back normally? Why had he manufactured this veneer of coldness? Was their old way lost to him now? He did not want to think any further on these matters. He knew it was a slippery slope.

X

Most of Marianne's friends had went home. Some of them were dancing on the floor, or singing karaoke to Fairytale of New York. Meanwhile, she and John were sat alone at the table, incredibly drunk, spilling their hearts out to each other - as drunken friends do.

John had told her some of his most painful memories of the war, and the subsequent depression, that he was just recently realising had been there all his life. He was drunk enough to become quite emotive on this topic, and she had reached out to hold his hand and squeeze it.

Now, it was Marianne's turn to share. John had prompted her, by asking about her past.

'I've wanted to have a chat with you about this for some time, Mar, just because I care, you know. But Mycroft and Sherlock, they've mentioned a few things - nothing clear or specific - but some vague things that have led me to believe you didn't have a very nice life growing up. Your family... wasn't too good to you? I don't want to probe, and please tell me if this is something you don't want to talk about. I tried to breech the topic with Sherlock a couple of times but he was rather defensive. He said it wasn't his past to tell.'

She nodded and began to explain all the details of her childhood. John was her friend. He had a right to know. She told him all about Sherlock's mother and her mother had been friends, and when Marianne's Mum died when she was just a baby, Mrs Holmes offered to babysit her. This led to Marianne spending the majority of her childhood at the Holmes' household, preferring it there than at her own house, where her father ignored her and her brother abused her.

'Oh God,' John said. 'Marianne, I'm so sorry.'

'Sherlock was the first one to discover it. He noticed my bruises and teaspoon and cigarette burns on my arms. He knew they were from my brother right away. He told his family and they tried their best to get social services involved. They visited my house a few times, but my father got them to go away, using his influence as a councillor. One time the police got involved. My brother was put away for a while. Those were the best months. I felt so free.'

She then moved on to explain what happened that fateful evening, one of her final evenings in London.

'My brother's abuse had never been anything but burns and punches, mostly when he was drunk or high. But then, when he was released from jail, a different kind of anger took over him. I knew something bad was coming. I phoned Sherlock, asked if he would come and pick me up. I was absolutely terrified, you see, my brother had called me and said he was coming home to teach me a lesson. He blamed me for his incarceration. In his head, I should never have told anyone about his violence towards me. I should have just accepted it.'

She sighed. Her voice was unsteady, recalling this information she mostly tried to keep buried.

'Sherlock tried his best to get there as soon as possible, I'm sure. But my brother got to me quicker.'

'Marianne-' John stammered. He looked disturbed and nauseous, his eyes glowing in the light of the bar.

'He raped me. He knocked me around a bit first, made sure I was bruised up, and then he pinned me to the floor and raped me. The look in his eye, John... I remember it to this day. He didn't believe he was doing anything wrong, he thought this was justice. He even had a small video recorder to tape it all happening. Thankfully, the police reassured me they destroyed the footage. It would have mostly just been full of me screaming and crying. And him laughing.'

John was breathing heavily. He wished he wasn't drunk right now, so he could formulate the proper words to say.

'My brother fell asleep. Right after he raped me, he fell asleep. I took that as an opportunity and ran next door. I was half-naked, there was blood all over me and I was trembling. The good people next door took me inside, wrapped me in towels and phoned the police. The next thing I knew I was in a back of an ambulance. Sherlock arrived. I was given a lot of painkillers that night, so I don't remember much of what happened in the ambulance. But Sherlock was there, and he hugged me.' She was speaking very shakily now, and felt like she might cry. 'That was the last time I saw him. Moved out of London with my father a few days later.'

'Marianne, I don't know what to say.' His voice was low, like a whisper. 'I am so, so sorry that happened to you. In fact, I'm horrified.'

She tried for a smile, though her whole face felt weak. It had been so long since she'd talked in such detail about the past.

He smiled back at her sadly. 'You are quite remarkable, Marianne. Quite remarkable. The hell you have been through. How you still manage to be so soft and kind to everyone around you.'

'Thank you, John.' She takes a drink. 

'You should be so proud of yourself. You're truly brilliant.

She was about to smile again, but stopped short, as John leaned towards her, and tried to kiss her lips.

She didn't flinch, but she did pull backwards, a look of shock on her face. She never thought this of John. She never thought he was the kind of man to take advantage of vulnerable moments such as this one. He immediately seemed to regret it, and began apologising profusely, holding his hands up in front of him and shaking his head.

'God, Marianne. Ignore that. Ignore what I just did, please. I'm sorry. It's the vodka... I don't know what came over me.'

She didn't know what to say. She was mortified. She had thought so much better of the doctor; he had disappointed her enormously. She stood up and said simply, 'I'm going to get another drink.'

How dare he? She had spilled out her heart to him, shared something she hadn't spoken about in ages... and she had done all of this because she felt comfortable in his presence. He was her friend. And this was how he reacted to her opening up about her rape... by trying to get a snog.

Marianne dealt with the rest of the night with an abundance of alcohol. She drank a myriad of tequila shots, and eventually fell drunkenly out of the club. Thankfully, John was there to help her into a cab. She was too drunk to remember what happened between them earlier, and fell asleep on his shoulder in the taxi.

X

Sherlock was still awake and reading when the front door to 221b Baker Street opened at 4AM. The drunken clatter of two people clambering up the narrow stairway could be heard. He didn't turn his head until they were in the doorway to the flat.

John did not appear too drunk, or rather - not nearly as drunk as Marianne, who looked completely inebriated. Her red lipstick was slightly smeared, her mascara had ran down her face (she'd been crying, and was still, in fact, crying) and she wasn't even standing up fully on her own two feet. John had to keep an arm around her to hold her upright.

Sherlock zoned in on the location of John's hand. Though he knew the doctor would never have malintent towards a young woman (John was perhaps the most well-intentioned man Sherlock knew), nonetheless - Sherlock felt uncomfortable with the way John's hand was placed. He could have easily, and more steadily, helped Marianne walk by putting an arm around her shoulder, or by hooking his own arm under hers. Yet, he had elected to put his arm around her in a way that allowed him to lightly brush her right breast.

There was no need for his hand to be there, and Sherlock hadn't realised just how much it irked him, until he was on his feet walking over towards the pair. Yes, more than likely, this was an innocent mistake that John was too intoxicated to notice, but for some unexplainable reason, Sherlock would just prefer it if John's hand was elsewhere.

'A bit too much of the old tequila, for this one,' John explained in jest as he saw Sherlock approach. His speech was tipsy and slurred. 

'I'm sorry...' Marianne spluttered, still sobbing somewhat, her words barely discernible in her drunk blabber. 'I've made a ... fool of myself.'

Sherlock took John's hand off her in one swift motion, and to avoid the wasted Marianne from losing her balance, Sherlock took hold of her instead. He brushed John out of the way without apology and hooked his own arm around her waist.

'I'm really sorry... I should never have got the double tequilas, John...' she wailed, trying to turn to face John, but Sherlock ushered her forward.

'Don't apologise to him, Marianne, it's fine. Come on, to your bed,' Sherlock said.

'I can't walk...' she cried, as though this was the saddest fact in the whole universe. 

'Yes, and that's why I'm here. Hold on to me, that's it.'

He knew that if you wanted to get a drunk person to comply for their own safety, you had to speak to them soothingly. It wouldn't do much good to snap at her or grow impatient. He'd never get her to comply then. Besides, he found he simply did not want to be cold to her right now.

This... God, was this the right word - _tenderness_... was coming far more naturally to him than he could have ever imagined.

'I've ruined everyone's night!' Marianne sighed dramatically, starting to cry once more, escaping Sherlock's hold and trying to flop down in the armchair. She was too drunk to land and would have fallen, if Sherlock wasn't already by her side with a hand on her upper arm - more firmly this time - pulling her towards her room.

'You just need to sleep,' he said.

'No, no,' she was shaking her head adamantly, moving them in the direction of the bathroom. 'Make up.'

He had no choice but to follow her, as she was clearly incapable of standing for more than ten seconds without collapsing to the floor. He put his hands on her waist as she washed the make up off her face, steadying her. By the time she was finished, there were still tiny traces of eye make up smudged under her eyes. Other than that though, she had done a fairly good job considering how drunk she was.

'Bed.' He ordered, trying to guide her towards the door one more time, but she had turned pale.

'I think I'm going to be sick...' she sounded so defeated by this notion. It was almost comical, the new mannerisms she displayed while drunk, the dramatic gestures and exaggerated sighs. The way she said she was feeling sick, the line was delivered with as much import as though she were a general surrendering in a war. Sherlock had to try to hide a grin.

'OK, well...' 

Before he had chance to help her to the toilet, she flopped down to the floor herself. She threw up into the bowl. He had never been that drunk in his life, and didn't plan on ever being so. He loathed the way it left one so exposed. Though Marianne didn't mind that, of course, Sherlock knew. Marianne had never minded being an open wound.

He noticed that her long curly hair was getting inside the toilet bowl as she gagged. He rolled his eyes before kneeling down and pulling her hair behind her, holding it in some kind of ponytail while she continued to vomit. 

'How much tequila did you drink?' He muttered, mainly to himself.

'Too... much.' She said, in between gagging and retching.

'Evidently.'

As she carried on being sick, and he carried on holding her hair, he noticed again the faint finger marks on her neck. They were from the rough sex he deduced she participated in with David. This wasn't his first time noticing these, and they made him uncomfortable every time. Normally he said nothing, but perhaps her excessive exposure right now brought something vulnerable out in him too, because he heard himself say: 'Why do you let men mishandle you?'

She was sick another time before she responded in a drunken mumble. 'I want them to.'

'Why?'

'To feel worth...' She coughed and spluttered, this time only phlegm coming up. 'To be worthy.'

He couldn't help but respond immediately - his confusion was getting the better of him: 'But you're worth more than any of those men, Marianne. By a landslide.'

'I don't think...' She hiccoughed loudly, wiping the saliva on her mouth with the back of her hand. 'I don't think so.'

She went to be sick again, but the vomit was coming up clear.

'You've got nothing left on your stomach,' Sherlock muttered quietly.'Come on, you need to get some sleep.'

Sherlock half-pulled her up off the floor, though making sure to be gentle. He guided her back through to her bedroom and she flopped back on her bed, struggling with her shoes. He undid the buckles for her when it became obvious she could not.

'I'll sleep in my dress,' she muttered, more to herself than to him, and rolled her way into the duvet. It was like watching a penguin clumsily sliding down an ice bank. Eventually, she managed to get under the sheets.

'Sleep on your side.' He said. 'If you're sick lying on your back, you could choke.'

She moved onto her side, and whispered somewhat dreamily. 'You're the only person who's ever made me feel safe, Sherlock.'

Those words hit him in a way he could never have expected. He tried to act like everything was normal, but it felt as though something inside of him had come undone.

'Do I still make you feel safe?' He found himself asking aloud, to no reply.

He glanced down at her. She was asleep. One of the longer pieces of hair from her bangs had fell in front of her right eye. It looked so uncomfortable, and out of place, he couldn't stop himself. He had to move it. He pushed it back behind her ear. He did not remove his hand from her face right away, though. He just looked at her. For a whole minute, he just looked at her, his hand on her cheek.

If he were another man, living a different kind of life, perhaps, just maybe, he might have bent down and kissed the middle of her forehead. That urge, towards... _sentimentality_... was not 100% foreign to him in that moment. But he was not _that_ man. He was Sherlock Holmes. And this was the life he was living. He didn't lean down, he didn't kiss her forehead. He simply whispered: 'Good night, Marianne,' before standing up and leaving the room.

He would not say it to himself, but he was glad he'd stayed up late. What had he told himself? That he'd stayed up so he could finish those books to help him with the cold case Who was he trying to fool? He'd waited up until she was home safe. He knew she'd be drunk, and he wanted to be awake in case she had needed someone.

Needed him. 

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback if you can!


	7. You Should Be Angrier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short little chapter here, to follow on from the drunken events of last chapter. I didn't really want to include this chapter at first - it felt like a filler. But at the same time, all drunken nights that feature mistakes and incidents etc, need a little bit of closure the morning after. And I definitely needed there to be water under the bridge between everyone, so please enjoy this small chapter.
> 
> The next chapter should be up in the next few weeks, I want to get it up before Christmas, because it is a Christmas party chapter. The one from s2e1. It's also going to be the chapter where I FINALLY get to write what I have wanted to write since beginning this thing. I wanted to have certain things happen at certain points. Having anything sexual or romantic happen too early, I always think lessens the impact. I don't want this to happen typically either, because Sherlock is not typical. And so things that are going to happen in the way of romance, sex, love etc, aren't going to happen the way you might expect.  
> Anyway, that's not important in this chapter so I'll stop talking about it.
> 
> Song for this chapter: Dogwood Blossom by Fionn Regan

_'That dam's gonna give, it's inevitable,_

_the way that you live,_

_bottles in brown paper and a mouth_

_that slurs,_

_all the shit that it stirs,_

_let that dogwood blossom'_

_\- Fionn Regan, Dogwood Blossom_

Following the drunken Christmas party, the morning after, Marianne woke up completely forgetful. She could barely remember the beginning of the night, let alone how it ended with Sherlock helping her to bed.

This meant that she also forgot John's mistake. She woke up around midday, her head pounding, her dress still on from the night before. Slightly anxious, and hoping nobody was in the front room, she opened the door to her bedroom slowly, to go straight in the shower.

John stood up from the armchair immediately.

'Mar, you're awake. I wanted to chat with you-'

'Oh God, don't look at me,' she chuckled, shielding her face, 'I still have yesterday's mascara all over my face.'

'About last night-'

'If I behaved in any way that's embarrassing, I assure you, I'd rather not know. But I will apologise if I was terrible. Tequila! I should have known. It ruins me, that drink-'

'Woah, Marianne.' John laughed softly to himself. 'This isn't about anything you did. You were... nothing but lovely last night. And vulnerable. I... you don't remember?'

She shook her head.

'None of it?'

Again, she shook her head.

John sighed and sat down. 'You better take a seat.'

She did, and he explained carefully and delicately the situation from the night before. How they had both been drunkenly and softly conversing, and she had confided in him about her terrible past. Her hellish childhood. And he had only gone and betrayed her trust by making a sordid pass at her. She couldn't remember this at all, and was shocked now as he brought it up.

'It wasn't just irresponsible of me. It was- well, frankly, it was piggish. You were exposed and vulnerable, and you'd just confided something that must have been very hard for you. For me to... I'm embarrassed in myself, is all I can say. It won't happen again, I can assure you.'

'Oh, John.' She squeezed his shoulder. 'It's OK. You're sorry, and I forgive you. We all act strange when we're drunk-'

John sighed. 'I'm sorry.' He said yet again. His shame was evident in his voice. 

'Completely forgiven.'

He chuckled. 'Well, Sherlock was right.'

'Sherlock?'

'He said you would forgive me without hesitation. Might be harder for him to let it go.'

'I'm confused.' Marianne screwed her face up in thought. And irritation. 'Sherlock knows? So, you spoke to him about this before me?'

'He deduced it.'

'Oh.'

'Well, half of it. Apparently something to do with the way I was staring into my coffee and kept looking at your door every time there was a noise, led him to the conclusion a conflict had happened between us the night before. So, I explained the incident. He wasn't too happy about it.'

'Really?' She was surprised. Why would Sherlock be annoyed on her behalf?

'I believe the term used was lecherous.'

She felt sorry for John, who looked truly ashamed and pitiful, but at the same time, a small feeling of anticipation rose in her stomach, at the thought of Sherlock rising to anger like that. To defend her.

'Ignore that, John. Ignore that. You're a brilliant friend. Who made a silly mistake last night, that's all. You're sorry and that's what matters.'

John took Marianne out to her favourite coffee shop for breakfast that morning, to make up for the incident. He bought her French toast and coffee. He himself got a fry-up and juice and they stayed for hours chatting and laughing and by the time they were leaving, everything was as it had been before. Much to John's relief, and much to Marianne's too, who really could not envision losing John as a friend. Sometimes forgiveness was tricky, but in cases like this, always worth it.

That's what she believed.

X

Later that afternoon, some time in the evening around seven, John was showering and having an early night, while Marianne was putting up a Christmas tree, when Sherlock arrived back from wherever he'd been all day. He had case notes and files in his arms so she guessed Scotland Yard. As she heard him ascend the stairs, she braced herself. John had explained that last night he'd put her drunken state to bed. She imagined that seeing her so drunk and pathetic had probably made him lower his opinion of her entirely. She imagined that he would be full of disgust. Seeing drunkenness as a sign of immense mental weakness. Perhaps he'd never speak to her again now, perhaps she was catastrophising. Either way, when John told her over coffee that Sherlock had helped her to bed, she had physically cringed at the image of how embarrassingly she had likely behaved. She heard the door to the front room open, and did not turn around from putting a bauble on the tree. _This is going to be awkward_ , she thought. 

'You're alive, then,' he commented.

She finished placing the bauble on the tree, and then turned around, smiling. 'Yes. And thank you for taking care of me last night. I couldn't remember but, John told me you were very considerate. Thank you.'

'More considerate than him. But then again, that wasn't entirely difficult, given his behaviour.'

She didn't really know what to say to that, and couldn't quite decipher Sherlock's tone. There was an edge to it but she wasn't sure why, so she smiled and turned back to the baubles. She imagined he would stop speaking after that but he didn't. She could feel him stood beside her.

'Did he apologise?'

'Pardon?'

'John, did he apologise for his behaviour?'

She wasn't quite sure where he was going with this. He seemed to be staring at her but she carried on looking for the right bauble to put on the tree next. She nodded.

'Is that a yes?'

She coughed. 'Yes.'

'Because if he didn't-'

'He did.' She laughed a little. 'He did. We cleared the air this morning, everything's fine. It was a mistake. He apologised profusely, he's forgiven.'

She turned to face him and Sherlock gave a brief nod. 'Good.'

She dared to ask. 'Why?'

'What do you mean, why? Why must you always ask why, even when it doesn't make sense to ask?'

'I mean, why do you mind so much if he apologised or not? I'm not sure you're interested in petty little incidents like who makes a pass at who. I thought the mundaneness of it all would bore you. It was just a silly mistake he made.'

'Mundane mistakes, you're right, I don't mind them. At all. They bore me to death, in fact. However, I do take an interest when someone makes a pass at you, Marianne, when you're drunk, vulnerable and from what John gingerly confessed, had just finished relating horrific childhood trauma, I do mind, then, yes. I mind a lot.'

She could feel a heat on her cheeks. There was a sincerity in his gaze, he hadn't looked at her like this since she moved in.

'I'm... I wasn't questioning you, I'm sorry. I just... thank you, is all. For taking care of me.'

Here was the point where she resolutely expected him to calcify. She was certain he would make one of his usual comments here, of coldness, aloofness. She thought he might even just ignore her entirely.

What happened instead, she did not expect. 

She had been fiddling with the bauble in her hand, deciding where to place it on the tree, as a kind of distraction from the intensity of the conversation, when he took the bauble from her. He began fiddling it with himself, as if his next sentence was difficult for him to say. And it seemed to be. It was coming from a place of such truth, emotional truth, she knew this was not his comfort zone.

'You should be angrier, when people mistreat you.' He managed to say, looking at the floor, bauble in his hand.

'John said he was sorry-'

'I'm not just talking about John. I'm talking about everyone. Even me, as well. Your family. David. Everyone. Just... people don't treat you very well because they know you'll forgive them.' He looked like he had more to say, and there was a moment when both of their eyes were locked on each other's, neither moving. But clearly he'd exhausted any emotional truth left in him. He handed her back the bauble, a little roughly. She took it.

'A bit early for a Christmas tree, isn't it?' He said, casually, flopping back in the armchair, picking up his case-notes.

She smiled because she knew that this deflection wasn't a regression to aloofness. He was criticising her yes, but not in the cold way he had done before. He was being casual with her, the way he would be with John. He hadn't let his openness tonight, or her vulnerability yesterday, cause any problem.

She shook her head. 'It's late, if anything. It's Christmas Eve in a little while, and we have a party.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback! It's so much easier and quicker for me to write knowing if you guys have any thoughts. Things you like, don't like, would like to see. If you have anything you want to see, no matter how niche or specific, I'm definitely all ears. I love to hear what you guys think, really motivates me to continue with the chapters. Open to answering any questions too.
> 
> Stay safe! x


	8. When the Party's Over...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Marianne's friendship, takes a strange and interesting turn. Perhaps this is a point of no return; will anything ever be the same between them again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most special chapter so far, to me. The moment I imagine you've been waiting for, or, almost the moment.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this one. It would mean the absolute world to me for some feedback on this. It makes it easier to know what to write if I can hear from you. As I always say, don't hesitate to suggest things you'd like to see, however dramatic or niche. I'd be willing to consider them, definitely. Or any thoughts really. I would love to hear from you guys.
> 
> Warning for mild sexual content.
> 
> Song for this chapter: When the Party's Over by Billie Eilish

_Don't you know too much already?_  
_I'll only hurt you if you let me_  
_Call me friend but keep me closer (call me back)_  
_And I'll call you when the party's over_

_Quiet when I'm comin' home and I'm on my own_  
_And I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that_  
_Yeah, I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that_

_- **Billie Eilish, When the Party's Over**_

The party was nearly in full swing.

Sherlock, on Mrs Hudson's request was playing Christmas hymns on his violin, which he only conceded to because of the occasion. John and his girlfriend were flirting underneath the mistletoe, and Molly and Greg were talking by the fireplace, admiring the lovely Scandinavian style decorations around the flat.

'These really are beautiful decorations,' said Molly, once Sherlock had finished a rendition of I Saw Three Ships. She was admiring a wooden Santa Clause figure, with pink cheeks and a green costume. It was gorgeously painted. 'Where did you buy them?'

'Oh, Marianne decorated the place,' John explained. 'Yeah, she was very firm with us that we were to leave the decorating up to her. A keen aesthetic eye,' John laughed, taking a sip of sherry. 'She's very festive.'

'Marianne?' Molly quickly asked. 'Someone else lives here with you both?

'Oh, you won't have met Marianne yet, will you?' John nodded. 'She's lovely. You'll like her a lot. She's Sherlock's most enduring friend. She needed a cheap place to rent so she's moved in here. A bit younger than him but he's known her since she was just a baby.'

Molly's previous contented expression had now faltered. 'And where's Marianne tonight?'

'She's just visiting her boyfriend's. She should be here shortly.' John explained. 

Sherlock took a mince pie from a silver tray Mrs Hudson had laid out and took a bite. Very quietly, he had scoffed at the word 'boyfriend', which John had used in reference to David. Only Molly had noticed this, and she now bit her lip anxiously.

'Boyfriend's a strong word for what he is.' Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'When will she be arriving? Is she bringing him with her?' Mrs Hudson asked. 'He's _American_.' Mrs Hudson explained to Molly in a hushed tone, as if this information was somehow illuminating and conspirational.

'God help us if she is,' Sherlock muttered, stuffing the whole rest of the mince pie into his mouth.

Around half an hour later, the door sounded, and Marianne came dashing up the stairs. She was dressed in a simple red dress, and her blonde hair was done in ringlets. She had bright red lips and tanned skin, with thick black lashes and silvery eyeshadow. Her attire was simple, yet elegant. Sherlock did a double take as he glanced at the door, for a moment unsure that it was really her. She had never looked more like a fully grown woman than she did right now. He almost had to search for the semblance of the little girl he remembered, from childhood, for he could hardly see that child in her now.

He guessed idly that she was what other men (men like John and Greg, men interested in sex etc) would call attractive. She was the kind of girl sinister men ogled in bars. The kind of girl more sensitive men than that, would fall very hard for, especially when they got speaking to her too, and realised there was more than just good looks, but a brilliant (albeit odd) brain in there too. Is that what he thought? No, not brilliant. She was illogical, in fact. A dreamer. Silly. Childish. Yet, then, sometimes, she was able to see through clients he had no idea were pulling any kind of deception. He'd admit, it was impressive. Like the 'soul' she always talked of was actually a thing and somehow she could see it in herself and others, and he couldn't. But that was just nonsense of course.

Nonetheless, all of that aside, it was bizarre for him to look at her now and see what he was seeing. Someone that people wanted to go to bed with. Someone society found beautiful. A silly, useless word. It meant nothing. Nobody was beautiful.

'You look wonderful, my dear!'' Mrs Hudson beamed at Marianne, the noise bringing Sherlock immediately out of his thoughts.

Molly had been focussed on Sherlock's observation of Marianne. He had barely lifted his eyes from her as she walked in. He looked away now though, as Marianne walked further into the room.

'Hello, you must be Molly.' Marianne said as way of introduction. 'I'm Marianne, it's lovely to finally meet you. I've heard so many good things.'

Molly held out a reserved hand for her to shake, but Marianne didn't notice and was already leaning in for a hug.

'You look lovely.' She said.

Molly simpered politely. Let herself be hugged. 'Thank you, and you-' she gestured at Marianne's outfit. 'You look great.'

'David not coming?' John said, handing Marianne a glass, then searching for the wine to pour in.

She shook her head, her eyes on the floor a little. 'I think that ship's,' she coughed, a little awkwardly, 'sailed. I think we're done now.'

'You and David?'

She nodded.

Before John could manage a placating sentiment, Sherlock was already interrupting. He scoffed. 'Well, perhaps it's true: miracles really _do_ happen at Christmas. In this case, the miracle being - you've finally saw sense and got rid of that obnoxious, immature sad-sack. Congratulations, Marianne. It really was embarrassing for you, dating someone like that.'

John rolled his eyes. 'You could at least try to be pleasant. It's Christmas.'

Sherlock looked affronted. 'I _am_ being pleasant.'

'You just said it was embarrassing that she dated David.'

'Exactly. Meaning she can do a lot better.' Sherlock shrugged, as if the compliment were obvious, and John was a fool for not realising. 'That's pleasant, isn't it?

John shook his head, stifling a laugh, heading back to his girlfriend.

Marianne was smiling. 'Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate the compliment, however buried.'

He waited a moment, and then gave her a small grin back. Molly, who had been watching intently, joined in at this point.

'So, you two go back a very long time then. You might as well be brother and sister.' She giggled awkwardly.

Marianne smiled, just so that Molly would not feel embarrassed, but really she did not know what to say. John had already told her, that Molly was head over heels in love with Sherlock. She could tell Molly was assessing her thoroughly, to see the true depth of her and Sherlock's relationship. It made Marianne uncomfortable, to be weighed up, scrutinised like this. She tried to pretend like it wasn't happening though. More than anything, she felt incredibly sorry for Molly. Unrequited love, she imagined, was difficult, let alone when it was for a man as stone-hearted as Sherlock Holmes.

'Requests?' Sherlock asked, and then before Mrs Hudson could speak he added: 'Not you. You've exhausted all of your requests, Mrs Hudson. Ten songs I've played for you now. Give someone else a turn. Anyone?'

He made this offer to the room, but Marianne couldn't help notice his eyes falling on her alone as he re-tuned his violin.

She volunteered: 'Silent Night, that's my favourite Christmas song.'

Sherlock nodded. The music was perfect, she felt, she felt it somewhere deep inside of her.

X

It was close to midnight now. A few people (especially John's girlfriend, who was now lecturing John for something by the fireplace) were a bit drunk.

Marianne, who was surprisingly not too drunk for all the wine she'd had, only tipsy, was showing everyone a bottle of red she'd bought and saved especially for tonight. She said now was the right time to bring it out.

'It's best enjoyed late. Close to sleep. It gives you wild dreams.'

She was a little flushed from tipsiness, and explaining in minute detail, like some kind of expert, about the different textures and notes they would be able to taste in this bottle tonight.

'I never had you down as a wine snob.' Sherlock commented, not unkindly.

'Oh, yes. Totally. And this stuff makes a lovely change from the turpentine John buys,' she said with a wink towards John, who was too engaged with his partner to notice. She popped the cork and began pouring for people.

'Do you want some, Sherlock?' She asked.

'I bet there's no real difference between the taste of that, and the taste of the supermarket wine we've been drinking all night.' 

She turned to face him. She'd expected him to be further away than he was, but he was actually standing right beside her.

'Well, do you want to test that theory?' She quizzed. She had meant that as a genuine question, but even herself, she could tell it had came out a little bit flirtier than she intended. She immediately prepared for Sherlock to ignore her, or start criticising, recoiling. Instead he took a step closer, and then took the wine glass from her hand.

'Fine. I will.'

'What do you think?' Marianne asked him, as he was tasting the purple-red liquid. 'Make sure you really let it linger on your tongue. Don't just swallow so quickly! Let it linger.'

Sherlock smirked a little at her eagerness, her preoccupation with the wine. It was... endearing? Was that the right word? Perhaps he just found it comical. Yes, that was probably it. He found her comical, caring about such trivial matters. So uncharacteristic, wasn't it? Was that uncharacteristic? He didn't really know. Perhaps he knew her less than he thought he did.

The wine was superlative.

'What do you think?' She said expectantly. 'Better than supermarket brand? Or no?'

He handed her back the glass. 'You win.'

She grinned. 'And I always will.'

He did not have a response to this, except to look at her, in a way she found oddly piercing. She stared back, because what else to do? 

They did not get chance to say anything, for Molly swiftly approached and began a bumbling conversation. She asked them about their plans for Christmas, and instead of waiting for them to respond, she bustled into talking about her own plans. Unfortunately, Sherlock saw Molly's interruption as a chance to try out some deductions. Marianne should have expected this. He'd been so good all night. He probably had to let off some steam. He was like a puppy, sometimes.

The deduction ended in a painfully awkward moment, in which Sherlock incorrectly guessed Molly was handing a present to a lover later this evening, when really it was for Sherlock. The moment was thick and tense, Molly looked like she might cry, all eyes were on her. Sherlock himself seemed a little ashamed. He had his gaze to the floor, and Molly's gift hung limply in his hands. Marianne thought of an idea and acted on it immediately. Entirely sober, she perhaps wouldn't have decided on this, but she was quite full of wine by this point and accidentally-on-purpose stumbled, pretending to trip over the rug, glass in hand, causing her and Sherlock to bump into each other. She had only meant to stop him from saying anything else that might cause Molly any further pain, by knocking into him. A distraction. But she forgot about the wine she was holding while she fell, and it spilled all over him.

  
That, she had not intended. Especially because she knew his shirts were expensive. She did most of the laundry, and had gasped the first time she saw the Paul Smith label. Then again, his family had always been incredibly rich and she guessed that was where he received his income from. He certainly wasn't paid by Scotland Yard.

'Shit! Sherlock, I'm so sorry!' She cried out genuinely, settling the glass down and her hands over her face. The rest of the room were covering their mouths too, feigning surprise, mostly trying to stop themselves from laughing at Sherlock's irritated expression. He looked genuinely annoyed.

He was still holding onto her wrist, which he had reached out and grabbed to stop her from falling when they bumped.

'Elegant footing, Marianne. Marvellous.'

'I'm so sorry.'

'Well, I must say I've gone back to preferring John's supermarket wine now. At least _that_ has never ruined a £350 shirt.' He let go of her wrist, a little angrily, roughly.

'I'll help you get the stain out,' she offered, taking _his_ wrist now and guiding him through to the kitchen. The party resumed without them and they were quiet and alone by the sink.

She was putting fairy liquid and some other kind of detergent onto a sponge, when she ordered Sherlock to sit down on a chair and wait for her. When she turned, he looked less irritated. Calmer. He said, 'You're never going to get that stain out, Marianne. You've practically coloured the whole shirt red.'

'I really _am_ sorry.'

'I refuse to believe you're that clumsy.'

'Well, no, I'm not. I actually _did_ mean to bump into you,' she lowered her voice, conspirational, 'only I forgot I had the wine in my hand.'

'Why?'

'You were upsetting Molly. You embarrassed her in front of everyone, she looked like she might cry on the spot. I thought you were going to continue.'

'So you bumped into me?'

'It was the first idea that came to my head.' She sighed, the scrubbing at his shirt evidently no use. To do this she had been keeping a hand placed delicately on his right shoulder, while her other hand scrubbed. She let go of his shoulder now.

'You really cared that much about the embarrassment of someone you've just met this evening?'

Marianne expected a lecture here, and so shrugged, non-committal, bracing herself for the onslaught. 'Yes, I know, I'm pathetic. I've heard it all before from you.'

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed for a moment, and then his gaze concentrated on her. 'I was only going to say, it was kind of you.'

'Sarcastically, though.'

'No, not sarcastically. I think it was a very kind, very Marianne thing to do. Why do you always assume I'm going to berate you?'

She wanted to say, because you always do, but thought better of it. He was never usually this patient and interested in her conversation. Best not to put him off. She shrugged again. And put her hand back on his shoulder, to scrub again.

'I told you, it's not coming out,' he said.

She bent down, carried on scrubbing at the stain regardless, perhaps a little too hard, for she tripped forward slightly, this time accidentally. Sherlock placed a hand on her hip just to steady her. In that moment, she glanced up at him. 'Thanks.'

His eyes were so strangely grey-blue, she noticed, staring into them, like sea on a murky day. She'd made eye contact with him before, not too often but enough to know his eyes. They'd never intrigued her that much. Now, she was seeing them up close. They were beautiful, she'd never realised that.

How physically close they were. If she breathed too harshly now, he'd feel her warm wine breath on his face. She could already smell his... and that's when she noticed. His breathing. Had it... _hitched_? Surely not.

He was looking at her eyes, with the same intensity she was staring at his.

'I promise I'll buy you a new shirt.' She had no idea why she whispered that, but she did. Her hand was on his shoulder, but she wasn't scrubbing at his shirt anymore. His hand was still on her hip, from steadying her when she tripped. He hadn't let go.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He whispered too, much to her surprise. Well, a kind of whisper. 'You can afford that?' And was that, it was infinitesimal so she wasn't sure if she was just imagining it, but did he just lean in closer to her?

'I'll save up.'

The intensity (intimacy? Would Marianne call it that?) of the moment was shattered by Molly, coming over and asking.

'Everything OK back here? How's the shirt?'

Marianne hurriedly let go of Sherlock's shoulder, and he let go of her hip. The place where his hand had been felt cold immediately.

'Don't bother with the saving,' he said to Marianne simply, 'it's just a shirt. I have plenty more where that came from.'

X

The party ended rather abruptly not ten minutes or so after the shirt incident. Sherlock was called in to go and identify Irene Adler's body, since her face had been disfigured and only he'd be able to identify her, having visually taking her measurements to crack the code for the safe. Many days ago now.

  
The guests had filtered out one by one after Sherlock had left. John's girlfriend had been the last to go, and John had decided to go with her. They were in some kind of argument at the end of the night. Marianne was left alone in the flat, waiting up for Sherlock. She and John had decided it would be best for her to wait up for him, since she was good in moments of emotional distress. Knew what to say, how to make people feel better. 

It wasn't, of course, that they expected him to be in emotional distress. Irene was not an especially important person to him... they'd met only once. But she had put herself in his way, texting him so abundantly. He had seemed quite let down by her death. They were worried about him.

Marianne, upon hearing of the death, had felt a great wave of sympathy. She barely knew the woman, but it was awful to hear she had died, and in such a brutal way too.

Sat here now, Marianne was flicking through the TV channels in the armchair, changed from her red dress into a pair of tartan pyjamas, her face fresh and bare, hair still curly and loose. She pondered curiously Sherlock's possible thoughts on Irene. She guessed, in the end, Irene represented a powerful adversary. One who he respected, for her will and manipulation. Sherlock wasn't one for friends. Did he feel the same way when an adversary died, as most people did when they lost a friend?

She had just settled on a television channel, a Christmas-special panel quiz show, when Sherlock's footsteps could be heard coming up the steps.

'Bit late to still be up, isn't it?'

She turned. 'Merry Christmas, Sherlock,' she said, because it was way past twelve. 

'Oh, we'll save all that mush until tomorrow. I can barely stomach such sentiments on the day itself, let alone the night before as well.'

'Would you like a cup of cocoa? I was just going to make one.'

He shook his head and sat down on the sofa. She got up to make the cocoa.

'Any leftovers? I think I'm going to have some cheese and crackers before bed. I'm quite hungry.' She called through.

'Not for me.' His tone was dead and dull.

While the milk was in the microwave, she came back to the living room.

'You know, everyone I've lost, people close to me, and those not too close, I always wonder afterwards if there'd been a way not to lose them. To keep them. What I could have done. And once I've exhausted that vein of thought, I think - I should never be happy or carefree again, because there's always the next thing to be lost. I thought it would get easier, losing things. I thought the art of losing would not be so hard to master. That's a line from a poem, actually. Elizabeth Bishop. I did believe it though, that you could get used to losing things. I hoped so.'

Sherlock was looking at her now intently.

She shook her head. 'You can't though. Every new grief is still its own grief. Whether it's a lost time, place... and of course, the worst, a person. The hopeful thing is, with the more you lose, the more you can tell yourself next time, it'll pass. Not entirely. Never entirely. But it passes somewhat, and eventually you learn _somewhat_ is enough to get by.'

'I don't care that much about her being dead, Marianne, but I appreciate the sentiment,' he said, with sarcasm to his tone.

'I know, but you do feel guilty, like her texts were a way of seeking help or something. That there was something you could have done. There wasn't. And the texts weren't a plea. She was just flirting. Her death had nothing to do with her association with you. You're shocked, and that's OK. You might not realise this is what you feel, but you might be feeling sorry for her.'

Sherlock said nothing, until she was back through in the kitchen.

'How are you like that?'

'Like what?' She called.

'In tune with... I don't know... the emotional pulse of the world, if such a thing were to exist. It's like you know something I don't. Moments like this. You always know what to say.'

She smiled to herself, spooning the cocoa into her milk. 'Well, my friends call me an empath. Maybe that's part of it.'

'Empath.' He repeated. 'Yes. You could be.'

'It's not all good. I feel too much sometimes. I don't want to feel that much.'

He didn't respond. She took a bite of some cheese, and then ventured a little further: 'I really am sorry about Irene.'

'Don't be.' He responded bluntly.

He did not seem in the mood to talk any further, and so she sat back down on the chair with her cocoa and snacks, and tried to watch television as comfortably as possible, ignoring the awkwardness heavy in the room. She thought a little bit about Irene, as her mind wandered during the television show. She vaguely sensed, and had done since the first meeting, that Sherlock had some interest in the dominatrix, and wondered what kind of interest. At Belgravia, she'd been strangely envious of the woman. But she'd put all of those thoughts to bed now. She'd just been silly that day. After all, that was when Sherlock was his most distant to her. It was only natural to be slightly envious. Nothing in it. She'd had a lot of strange thoughts about Sherlock that day. Odd ones. She'd tried not to entertain them much since.

After ten minutes of the TV show, Sherlock broke the silence.

'When did you lose your virginity?' And then he quickly added, obviously realising the phrasing of the question, given what her brother once did to her. 'Consensually.'

Marianne nearly choked on her cocoa. The question came so entirely out of the blue. She hadn't expected it all. His expression was unchanged, however, still staring blankly ahead. Eyes fixed on the wall above the fireplace.

'You don't have to answer,' he said after a moment.

'I was seventeen.'

He didn't say anything to that, but something about this silence implied he wished for her to go on.

'I was terrified, I built it up in my head for ages. He was a nice boy, from my chess club actually.' She expected him to pass comment on the fact she attended chess club, but he didn't. 'We were casually seeing each other, for chess matches at coffee shops and stuff. I invited him back one day, my Dad was out, and we had sex in the living room. It wasn't very fun, and he wasn't the greatest guy. He wasn't bad, but he was quite stuck-up. Anyway. It wasn't scary at all like I'd imagined. Just awkward. I'd been so terrified. For nothing.'

He didn't say anything.

'Why?' She asked.

'Curious.'

She dared to go on, given the private nature of his own questioning: 'Have you... ever had sex?'

'Well, what do you think?' He sneered.

She back-pedalled. 'I just wondered, I'm sorry.' Of course she knew he was a virgin. It was common knowledge. It was obvious. She just hadn't known what else to say.

That's when it hit her. His anguish tonight, at Irene.

'Did you think Irene was your chance? To lose your virginity?'

He said nothing, which was answer enough. Marianne couldn't explain it, but the strange and indescribable envy was back from last week, meeting Irene. 

She said she was sorry yet again and stayed quiet this time. If he wanted to explain, he could. But she wouldn't probe any further. The odd envy inside her was only growing stronger, and she was starting to feel angry. What for? This was bizarre behaviour and she couldn't understand herself.

Another five or so minutes passed, before he said:

'I believed Irene would be a good person to try it with, considering she presented herself as an entirely sexual being. If I could learn sex from someone whose entire profession revolved around it, I imagined the ordeal wouldn't be so... humiliating, confusing. And the... virginity... wouldn't seem such an issue. Almost as if her opinion of me didn't count for anything. There would be nothing to lose. No shame to be had. She'd probably been with virgins hundreds of times. I would have been nothing new.'

She was so shocked at this, and tried not to show it, casually taking another bite out of her cracker. The wine and the drama of the night must have made him more honest than usual.

'Is that misogynistic of me?'

Marianne thought about this. 'Yes, quite a bit.'

'I don't intend to be.'

'It's a missed chance. Irene being dead. You feel like you've missed your chance to have sex? Is that why you're affected?'

'I know, I'm a robot, a bastard, go ahead, tell me all that you're thinking. John would.'

She shook her head. 'I wasn't going to say that. I was going to ask why you even want to have sex in the first place. I thought you were past all of that stuff. Intimacy, etc. You don't have to have sex just because society says you should, Sherlock. Or because your brother teases you.'

'I just imagine I ought to, by now.' He seemed to be aware of the honesty of his conversation thus far, and changed to a more informal tone, 'Perhaps it would make me think better, the oxytocin and dopamine released, lead to better brain-work, which in turn leads to better case-work. There are studies that show regular sex improves observation and concentration skills by 25%.' As if to detract from the intimate topic at hand, to make the atmosphere more casual, he reached and took a bit of cheese from the plate she had in front of her. He popped it in his mouth. 'Anyway, even if she had lived, it would never have happened. As if, when it came down to it, I'd trust someone like Irene Adler to guide me through. She'd probably have a knife in her garter the whole time.'

There had been a lot of silences in this strange conversation so far, but the one that followed was definitely the longest. In fact, Sherlock was sure Marianne was asleep, though he didn't glance over. 

She knew exactly what she wanted to say. But was terrified to say it. She shouldn't say it. She absolutely couldn't believe she was even thinking it, let alone considering to say it. Sherlock was her longest friend. She'd known him when she was barely knee-high... _don't say it,_ she told herself _, don't say it. You might lose him forever._ She couldn't say it. Absolutely wouldn't. It was preposterous. Insane. And her wine had worn off by now so she couldn't blame saying it on being drunk, either. _Don't say it, don't say it._

But she was Marianne. A fire. Passion. Electricity. She was not for calm aloofness or detachment. She wore her soul on her sleeve, and her impulsiveness would be the death of her. Her inability to wear a mask or keep her cards close to her chest.

So, finally, in one breath, she said it.

'Would you trust me to guide you through it?'

If he was shocked, Marianne thought, he did well to hide it. He responded a couple of minutes later, probably after he'd had time to formulate a response. 

That probably meant he was shocked, if he had to think about what to say. He normally just spoke without thinking.

'That would be immoral, Marianne. It would be immoral for me.'

'That's ridiculous,' she said immediately, surprisingly heated.

'I knew you when you were just a child.' His tone was just as heated and snappy as hers now.

'I'm not a child anymore.'

'I'm ten years your senior. When I look at you, I still see the little girl with chocolate all around her mouth, following me around, tugging at my coat-tails.'

'Do you?' She pressed, because she was suddenly thinking back to his hand on her hip earlier this evening. His hitched breath. She had been too intoxicated to properly, _fully_ register it at the time... but that wasn't the behaviour of someone who still viewed her as the little girl she used to be. He was lying. 'Really?'

He looked at her now, for the first time in this completely unexpected conversation. How strange. His face occupied both uncertainty and decisiveness all at once. A complete mystery. 

'I'm not a child,' she repeated this again, firmly, setting her mug down on the coaster on the table, and walking over to where he was sat on the sofa. She was stood above him, looking down. Her body was facing his, and he had put his legs down, his feet had previously been on the sofa, his knees under his chin. Their legs were now touching. 'I'm twenty-six.'

'And I'm thirty-seven soon.' He said, as though that mattered. 

She pulled a face as if to say ‘so.’

'Marianne,' though his tone was obviously meant as a warning, she could sense something else in it. Something he was repressing. 'I knew you when you were a child. I'd be taking advantage. I'd be... it would just be wrong.' He was talking about why he couldn't. Not that he didn’t want to.

'I would never let you take advantage of me.'

'That's the point of taking advantage, you wouldn't realise I was.'

Perhaps if tonight were not so strange, the wine, the party, the situation with Irene... she'd have never been this brave. But something was inside of her, impulsiveness at new heights. She would analyse her behaviour, her feelings and thoughts tomorrow. Right now, she was invested only in the present moment, and this is where the present moment was taking her. Stood above Sherlock Holmes, propositioning him. The man who'd babysat her in childhood. The man who'd been her only friend for so long. Who'd watched her grow up.

'Marianne,' his voice did not have any firmness in it now. He wouldn't look at her eyes anymore.

'Tell me to sit down now. And I will. Tell me to go back to my chair and I will. Tell me.'

He met her eyes. They looked at each other for a while, neither moving.

'Are you going to tell me to go and sit down?' She said quietly, still with a small smile.

He shook his head.

Her smile grew. 'Did you like the way I looked tonight?'

He nodded.

She could hear his breathing and knew for certain it had hitched. There was no denying it now.

'Pull me into your lap,' she said. Something inside her knew he'd have no idea what to do unless she told him.

He waited, as if truly wondering for the last time, the final hesitation, whether he should allow himself to...

He slowly, ever so slowly, took her wrist and pulled her down on to his lap. She could feel that he was hard immediately.

'Push my hair behind my ear.' 

He did as she told him, again, ever so slowly, never taking his eyes from her’s.

'Your hair is always falling in front of your eyes,' he said with a smirk. His hand was warm on the side of her face, and so large she thought. She liked the feel of it there.

'Would you like me to touch you?' She spoke gently, the same whisper as before.

He nodded.

She adjusted her position on his lap, so that she was effectively straddling him. She moved her hand to his trousers and unzipped the flies. Before she had even touched him, his lips parted slightly, and by the time she actually had a hand on his cock, he let out the softest moan. Already. 

She knew at once he was more than just a virgin in the penetrative sense. He had never so much as been touched before, either. This was clear. She wondered if he'd ever even touched himself. Surely.

She leaned in closer and so did he, and as their lips touched, so faintly, she began to move her hand in a stroking motion, up and down. He groaned into her mouth, and she smiled, kissing him so delicately, barely kissing him at all. He would have to lean in if he wanted more.

He did. She could feel his tongue on hers, battling it, and then light against the roof of her mouth. She reached her free hand that was not touching his cock, to his hair, and ran her hand through it, the curls through her fingers. She pulled at them slightly.

One of his hands, the one that he was not using to grip the side of the sofa, slipped under the waistband of her pyjama bottoms.

'Can I?' He said, pulling away from the kiss, slightly breathless. His voice was a whisper. It sounded like his throat hurt. This was a new tone she'd never heard from him before.

She nodded, rolling her head back as his hand slipped under her underwear. She knew she was wet for him, and her breathing hitched at the feel of his finger, not moving inside of her, just gently touching around her vagina and it was enough to make her moan too. Quietly, gently.

His other hand, previously gripping the sofa, now made its way to the small of her back to hold her while she bucked into him. He groaned loudly, pleasurably, as she tightened her grip on his cock.

She went in to kiss him another time, but suddenly there was a noise. Abrupt. Something downstairs. The door was opening. Then, immediately after, footsteps up the stairs. She quickly jumped up and pulled her pyjama bottoms up and Sherlock zipped up his own trousers. She threw him a cushion and he hurriedly placed it across his lap, to hide his erection.

Both of their cheeks were flushed and hair incredibly ruffled as John came into the room, with a take-away box of pizza in one hand and his keys in the other.

'Well, Jeanette broke up with me.' John announced, exasperatedly. 

Marianne couldn't look at Sherlock. And it would seem he couldn't look at her either. They both stared at John instead.

'Oh no!' She gasped, feigning shock or even interest. In normal circumstances, she'd think to give the doctor a hug or something, but her mind was still where it was ten seconds earlier. Sexual feeling. A hand around Sherlock Holmes' cock.

'Yeah,' John continued, 'She's sick of my attention being on everything else but her apparently. I had a shout and what have you, but maybe she's right. Maybe it is me. I don't know, this relationship stuff. I'm better at being unattached, I think. I'm not cut out for...' he sighed. 'Well, I don't know. Anyway what's up with you two? You seem flustered.'

Marianne flattened her ruffled hair. 'Oh, we were just watching a quiz show. Would you like some cocoa John?'

He shook his head. 'No, no. I bought myself a pizza on the way back, cheer myself up. I think I'm just going to watch TV for a while with you two.'

Marianne nodded, finally daring to look at Sherlock. He wasn't looking at her however. He hadn't spoken at all since John arrived. He did not say anything for the rest of the night. Only Marianne and John talked (mainly John) while they watched old Christmas specials on the television. At about four AM Sherlock announced he was going to bed. Marianne said good night, but he did not respond.

A couple of minutes later, she received a text. She glanced at it:

'Tonight was a mistake. My mistake. Forgive me, and forget it happened. SH.'

Marianne sighed. 

She thought to herself, _of course._


	9. Dangerous Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne and Sherlock deal with the fall-out from their almost-sexual encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm taking a long time to get through just one episode, but I want this relationship and for Marianne as a person to feel as authentic as possible. The speed will pick up after the Belgravia episode is over, of which there is only one more chapter.
> 
> As always, please let me know any comments/feedback/ideas/suggestions. Do you like Marianne? How do you feel about Sherlock and Marianne as potential lovers? Any thing, particular situation etc you would like to see happening between the pair of them?
> 
> Song for this chapter: Exile Vilify

_Oh, you meant so much_   
_Have you given up_

_Does it feel like a trial_   
_Does it trouble your mind the way you trouble mine_

_You got suckers luck_

_Have you given up_

_**\- The National, Exile Vilify** _

It was coming to the end of January now, a whole month since Sherlock and Marianne's heated venture on Christmas eve. Things had been slightly distant between them, not altogether awkward but something close to it. Marianne had tried numerous times to sit down with Sherlock to chat to him about it. She'd brought him coffee early in the morning, and cocoa or tea late at night and asked if they could have a few words about what happened. He'd took the beverages but always shrugged her off, said something about having too much work to be getting on with. That wasn't true. Since Irene Adler, he hadn't found a proper case to sink his teeth into, only small ones that he ended up solving in less than six hours.

She guessed how he probably feeling. Guilty, for starters. He'd been so concerned moments before they kissed, and touched each other, that anything intimate between them would be immoral, would mean he was taking advantage. He was probably afraid, too. Marianne knew he was probably very afraid; sex, intimacy... it required a vulnerability that Sherlock was not used to, a vulnerability that discomfited, even frightened him perhaps. She wouldn't be surprised if that evening was the most vulnerable Sherlock Holmes had ever allowed himself to be.

Why her, though?

Why her of all people? Sherlock was coming up to thirty-seven years of age, he'd never been with another person. Not once. And he'd let her be the first one. Well, they never actually had sex, of course, but they came quite close to it. 

To tell the truth, it had been genuinely thrilling, for her. She'd never considered him in such a sexual way before, with as much seriousness. It was far removed from the way she was used to considering him - just clever, old Sherlock, silly old Sherlock, immovable, impenetrable, keeping-everyone-at-arm's-length, asexual Sherlock.

Now he was... something new, in her eyes.

She'd always known he was attractive. He was an attractive-looking man, that could not be denied. Now, however, she had began to see him as beautiful. Similar feelings had arose back at Belgravia, watching him speak to Irene. A possessiveness had swirled inside of her mind that she couldn't quell, but at the same time, she thought about what a pleasure it would give her just to watch him have sex. With anyone.

It was as if he had moved, in her mind, from being attractive - to being beautiful.

She explained all of this to her friend, Mary, over coffee one Thursday afternoon. The sun was beginning to set outside, and they were seated in the outside pavilion of Marianne and Mary's favourite espresso bar. Marianne was quite warm, she had a large pale green coat on over a few layers already, and a scarf and beret. But poor Mary hadn't been so sensible, and was getting quite cold in just a shirt and denim jacket.

'Would you like to find some seating inside?' Marianne asked.

'No, I should be fine.'

'You're shivering, Mary! Take my coat, I've got a lot of layers underneath-'

'Marianne, I'll be fine.'

They had known each other for a long while, through friends of friends, but recently they'd been getting quite close. Mary was a little bit older than her, she was closer to Sherlock and John's age, but that didn't matter. They got along swimmingly. And recently, they'd become even closer. Mary had recently lost her father, and Marianne was there for her more than any of Mary's other friends. 

Marianne was privately glad for Mary. All through Marianne's life, she'd struggled somewhat with forming attachments. She gave too much vulnerability away to begin with. People got put off by her intense intimacy, and kept her at a distance. She'd always had friends, but never best friends. This is why she'd been in such high spirits over the past half a year. Both Mary and John had become the best friends she'd longed for since her childhood friendship with Sherlock. She was so grateful for that, people to be exposed in front of, people who let their guard down around her.

She would call Sherlock a friend too, now, in adulthood. But a tempestuous one. She didn't believe she could rely on him the way she could rely on Mary or John. Some days he spoke to her with such a concerned intensity, she forgot about the distance and difficulties between them. It was like they had never been apart. Then other days, he made her feel the size of an ant.

She was telling all of this to Mary, who just laughed.

'What? What's funny?'

'It sounds like you're in love with him.'

'Oh, no. I don't... I've never been in love.'

Mary shrugged. 'Neither have I. Not really. Doesn't mean it can't happen one day.'

Marianne had had romantic feelings for people, of course, and she definitely had sexual feelings for people - but she'd never been in love. Which always surprised herself, considering how sensitive she was. All her nerves raw, on the outside of her skin. Yet nobody had ever had her heart like that.

'I've known him since I was a baby, I can't be in love with him. I would have had feelings before this. It wouldn't just... come on suddenly.'

'Look at you - the master of feelings, the ultimate empath, the girl who can sense and measure emotions and vulnerability like it were a physical force, a pulse - suddenly denying her feelings.'

Marianne shook her head, sipping her coffee and giggling. 'You're being a pest, Mary.'

'You're in love with him, can't you see? I didn't want to point this out, but he's kind of all you talk about.'

'Is not.'

'Is so. Trust me. It's me that you do the talking to. What was it last week - oh, Mary, Sherlock made enough coffee in the French press so I could have some too, oh, Mary, Sherlock complimented my cooking skills, Sherlock fingered me-'

'He didn't finger me,' Marianne said, with a hiss, 'And keep your voice down.'

'OK. Almost fingered you.'

'You're such a troubler-causer.' Marianne smiled.

'I know, it's why you keep me around.'

'You do keep me on my toes.'

Mary grinned. 'It's John that I feel sorry for.'

Marianne was looking at the bottom of her coffee cup, which was empty now. She thought she might order another, but realised it was getting late; perhaps too late for more caffeine if she wanted any sleep that night.

'What do you mean?' She looked up. 'Why do you feel sorry for John? You've never even met him.'

'I know, but the poor bloke has to put up with you two all the time and your sexual tension.'

'There's no sexual tension.'

'Oh, come off it. Anyway, yes, poor John. He's living under the same roof of two eccentric prodigies, in their own right, who can't stop from eye-fucking each other every ten minutes.'

'I am not a prodigy, not by any means, and definitely not compared to Sherlock.'

'Marianne, I've never met anyone as spiritually in tune with - everything, as you.'

She asked the waiter for the bill. 'That doesn't make me a prodigy.'

'Makes you a weirdo, though.' Mary said, a slight smirk on her lips.

Marianne couldn't stop from laughing. The water she was drinking trickled down her lips. 'Yes, it makes me a weirdo, I guess.'

'And Sherlock likes it. He likes his strange, little weirdo.'

'Anyway, if you feel sorry for John so much, why don't you go on a date with him? I keep telling you both you'd really get along.'

Mary shook her head, solemn suddenly. 'Oh, I don't go for relationships. You know that.'

'You'd both get along.'

'He wouldn't like me, and all my baggage,' Mary said simply, with an air of finality, as she put some money down.

Marianne didn't push this any further. As open as they were with each other, Marianne often felt like there were cards that Mary kept very close to her chest. Something deep inside of her, she kept secret, entirely private and distinct.

X

Sherlock hopped into the first cab that stopped for him. He said Baker Street immediately, and settled into the seat.

Today had been shocking, to say the least. It turned out Irene Adler was alive after all. But what did that mean for him? How did he feel about that?

He'd never been particularly harrowed by her death, no more than he would by any other death on a case. Yet Marianne was right when she said it on Christmas Eve: he was grieving a lost opportunity. Irene was not the only woman who'd ever expressed an interest in him sexually; many had, and men too. If he wanted to lose his virginity, there were options other than Irene. He could probably lose his virginity today if he felt so inclined. But Irene had been a more serious option... this was her job. Sex. It filled her every day. And so having sex with her would be less humiliating. She'd probably been with hundreds of virgins. And even if she did find him totally inept or embarrassingly bad at it, to him - it hardly mattered what she thought.

Marianne had called him out on that, on Christmas eve. Said it was misogynistic. It was just that he was not good at not knowing how to do something. He would rather learn from a stranger he barely cared for, than someone who he would have to see often. Someone who he cared about the opinion of. Someone he wanted to impress, perhaps.

Irene could show him, he knew that, now that she was alive. He could go to her tonight, have sex, know the ways, and he wouldn't have this great uncertainty about desire and bodily functions anymore. He wasn't going to.

Irene was interesting to begin with, granted. A puzzle to work out. Quickly enough, though, he saw through her, as he imagined he would. She was too much like him in the end, to ever be truly captivating. In fact, himself and Irene were remarkably similar. Both manufactured a superior, cool veneer, as a guard against the wider world, which was full of sentimentality, humanness. Both, you might say, had grown skilled at wearing the right kind of mask at the right time. He wasn't interested in someone so predictable. It was too much like looking in a mirror, and he never enjoyed looking in mirrors.

Marianne was a different story entirely. Perhaps the polar opposite of himself and Irene... Marianne was deliberately exposed and vulnerable, childishly naïve and spiritual, believing in the inherent good of people like an inexperienced baby, explicitly emotional, sometimes over the tiniest things (she once sat speechless and sombre for a whole evening over the death of a mouse Mrs Hudson had found in the basement)... and yet, that was not even scraping the surface with her. Marianne was a well he couldn't see to the bottom of.

When he looked into her eyes sometimes, in conversation, he had to look away. Her vague, green watery gaze - it was exactly how you might imagine knowledge to be. Clear and deep, with a crisp wateriness to it. For someone so much like an open book, Sherlock still couldn't fathom her fully. Her motives, her reasons, her words. He could deduce things about her the same way he could everyone else, but only facts. Only details such as what she had for breakfast, whether she had been to the library that day or not, when was the last time she'd taken sleeping pills. It was hard for him to deduce deeper than that though. He could never see past surface-level details. The details of her, he cringed, 'soul', as she would call it, were not visible to him.

Marianne Gleeson was perhaps the most fascinating case yet.

He had tried to remember what she'd been like as a child, and the same sense of mystery came up in his memory. She'd still had her child-like ways, like her adoration of chocolate spread which made him smile even now. Yet she had been different to a lot of children, something about her was... wise, tired, and at the same time, if possible, so new and curious.

It rattled him. How he could look at John, see everything. Look at Irene, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, even Mycroft most of the time... and then, this small, blonde spirit-obsessed girl turned up on his doorstep and everything in his life seemed to have changed.

He was considering life in a way he never had before.

He was considering sex, for Christ's sake. He'd had his finger inside her.

He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts; he'd already let guilt eat away at him too much for that.

He came up to the front door of Baker Street now and slowed down. He could see that it had been pushed open with some force, and there were scuff marks on the paint. Immediately, he came to the conclusion the Americans from the other month - the CIA who had infiltrated Belgravia - were now upstairs.

John was at work. He knew Mrs Hudson was away on a trip with Mr Chatterjee, her current dalliance. He remembered Marianne mentioning coffee with a friend. Had that been today? He hoped so. However, as he took a few steps into the building, he could smell her perfume on the bottom step. He knew instantly, that when he travelled up those stairs, and into the front room, that Marianne would be there, hurt.

Heat rushed to his cheeks and he found that it was not his muscles that got him up those stairs but an unmistakeable swirl of anger unlike anything he had experienced in recent years. It carried him. Gave him speed and strength despite a sudden terror.

He was right. In the living room, Marianne was tied to a chair just in front of the fireplace. Her hair was in disarray and there were finger-sized bruises on her wrists from where they'd grabbed her as she struggled. 

His anger exacerbated into something hardly containable when his eyes drifted to her face. She did not appear distressed, but perhaps she should have been. Her nose was bleeding profusely, all over her face. It had even dripped down her lips and into her mouth, her teeth. He noticed the faint outline of a boot print on her face; so that's how the bleeding had started. One of these armed men had stamped on her face until her nose broke. 

'Hello, Mr Holmes. I'm sorry we had to do this to your pretty little friend here, but you and Ms Adler didn't really leave us with much of a choice.' The ringleader said, his eyes shifting from Marianne, over to Sherlock. He lowered the gun he had vaguely pointed in her direction, then re-aimed it at Sherlock.

He didn't flinch, but Marianne did.

'Please don't hurt him,' she said, trying to move but failing. 

'What, would you rather we point it at you?' The man snorted.

'Yes,' she said solemnly.

Sherlock tried not to consider this - that she didn't mind the gun on her but hated it pointed at him. He looked at her from across the room, and mouthed 'It's Ok.'

Each time he looked at her, and saw the blood, a new surge of anger rushed through him. He was hot behind his neck and his jaw was clenched. He felt not only anger, possessiveness, the like of which he had never experienced before. As though somebody had dared to touch something of his, and worse - break it. Marianne would despise that wording, as though she were property that belonged to him. And of course he didn't really believe that, but in his head right now, anger was so pervasive, so infiltrating that he wasn't making much sense to even himself.

He took a deep breath and as casually as he could manage, he sauntered towards where she was tied up. He bent down to her height, as she was sat down on the chair, and examined her wrists. This was just to make sure no other harm, apart from the clearly broken nose, had come to her.

'It'll be all right,' he muttered quietly.

She nodded. She didn't seem frightened at all. She'd been like this at Baker Street; for a civilian, with no past experience in combative situations, she was unbelievably brave. Equally as brave as John - a soldier.

Then he remembered the kind of life she'd had to live. Lost her mother when she was just a baby, an absent father and an abusive brother who one day raped her. All the while she'd stayed remarkably tender and kind. That was a kind of bravery he could hardly comprehend, to stay soft and selfless and courageous in a world that had tried to break her down. She was a kind of solider in her own right. In a sense.

He was about to give them the camera phone, tell them where it was, when he noticed a small bulge underneath Marianne's t-shirt. He realised at once that she'd smuggled the camera-phone and was hiding it from them.

So, even under duress, even getting her nose broken, she'd tried to protect the likes of... Irene Adler. A woman who meant nothing to her.

Sherlock realised he couldn't give the phone up. Not just because they might take their anger out on Marianne, for lying to them, but also - if she was acting so courageously right now, he didn't want to embarrass himself and give in.

'If you want the camera phone,' he said slowly, confidently 'You're going to have to acquiesce to some of my demands too.'

The American sighed, with a hint of weariness.

'Firstly, I want you to lower that gun, and get rid of your men. I dislike being outnumbered in my own home.' Sherlock straightened his back, a few inches from the man's face.

'Do you really, genuinely believe you're in a position to make demands, Mr Holmes? We could just shoot you dead.'

'Shoot me. Then you'll never learn where the phone is.'

'Or,' the American laughed, 'it might be easier for us to shoot Miss Gleason here.' He trained the gun back on her. 'That soon got you complying back at Belgravia, didn't it? When I put a gun to your girlfriend's head. You soon gave us the code to the safe.'

Sherlock, despite the initial fear that infected him at the mention of shooting Marianne, never allowed the threat to elude his logic.

His logic also allowed him to see that it might be a good idea to lie. If the men thought Marianne was his girlfriend, that might actually work in their favour.

'See, you're an intelligent man, I'm sure. Have to be to get this high up in the CIA. Overseas missions, the like. So you must have an idea, you must know, that if you kill my girlfriend, then not only am I going to refuse to co-operate any further with your demands, but I'm also going to inform my brother, the literal British government, to envision a death for you so brutal you'll regret that you've ever been born.'

'I didn't say we'd kill her. I only said shoot. Might shoot her in the arm.' The gun was now trained on her left arm. 'Or how about we kneecap her?'

'OK. So, say you do shoot her in the arm.' Sherlock stayed calm. He had to. 'I'll give you the phone, yes, of course, but once I've done that, the same ending still occurs. I still call my brother. You still die in unspeakable pain. However this goes. You hurt her anymore than you already have, you die in agony. Is that understood? You should be glad I'm giving you an opportunity to walk away unharmed here, given how you've already bruised her up. You're lucky you're not already dead.'

The American, still cocky, grinned. 'I could play this game for hours. OK, Mr Holmes, so how about this? I shoot her in the arm, you give me the phone, then I shoot both of you to save my own skin. How about that? You both wind up dead, I have the phone.'

'Yes, I'm sure that would go down very well in the press, and with your employers back in the US.'

Sherlock, as though a light bulb had been switched on, immediately saw a plan form. Another lie.

'What would?'

'That you break the nose of an unarmed, pregnant woman, tie her to a chair for hours on end, threatening her, only to kill her, the unborn baby and her boyfriend anyway, even after she appeased your demands. How will people feel about that, do you think? Woman and baby killer.'

The man stopped, thinking for a moment. 'She's not pregnant.' He looked to Marianne immediately. 'She would have told us when we tied her up. Women always do.'

'I imagine she thought that if she told you, you might harm the child. Kick her stomach, etc.'

Marianne nodded, evidently on board with the plan. 'That's what I thought.'

'How come she doesn't look pregnant?' Said one of the other men at the back of the room, who Sherlock had barely known was there.

'Because she's only a month along, we found out last week.' Sherlock was surprised at how much conviction he was using to express this lie. 'Do you really want to risk a stain like that on your reputation? There might already be hell on if it's discovered that you broke her nose, let alone shot her.'

'Fine. Go.' The ringleader pointed to his men, and they left down the stairs.

'Now, get rid of your guns.' Sherlock ordered. 'I don't want myself, or my partner and child to be under the threat of a gun a second longer.'

The man considered this for a moment. 'OK, but I want you to surrender your guns first.'

'I'm unarmed,' Sherlock said, raising his arms and opening up his coat for the man to check. He approached, and as soon as he began to check the pockets, the detective leaned forward and headbutted the agent with such a force, the intruder fell unconscious immediately.

Without wasting a moment, Sherlock dropped to his knees before Marianne and began untying her. The bonds around her wrist were incredibly tight, and took a while for him to loosen.

'Are you all right? It's OK, you're all right now,' he said, oddly delicate in tone. When the bonds were undone, he surprised himself by instantly reaching up and touching her face with both of his hands. He hadn't known why he'd done this, and so began turning her head to check her nose from side to side, as if his aim had been just to inspect her injury.

'He stood on your face.'

'With his steel-toe-capped boot,' she said venomously, looking down at the ringleader, still out cold on the floor.

'Him?' Sherlock pointed. She nodded.

Marianne began to stand up, but he pushed her back down, gently. 'Stay sitting. Your nose is a mess, Marianne.'

He went to the kitchen and brought back a towel.

'Oh, but it's white, we won't get the blood out-'

'I'll buy a new one, just tilt your head forward.' 

Marianne did as she was told, and he handed her the towel to stem the bleeding.

'Is it broken?' She asked.

He said it was.

'All crooked and ugly?'

He looked at her for a moment, though she was looking somewhere else, down at the floor. 'No, of course not ugly.' He responded.

She looked up, but by the time she did, he was already looking someplace else.

'That was clever thinking, about the pregnancy.'

'I know,' Sherlock grinned, he ushered her over to the sofa now. 'You and baby sit down and rest.'

She laughed, spluttering a little through the blood. He laughed too. 

'Are you sure you're all right? They didn't -' he coughed, suddenly awkward. 'They didn't - they didn't hurt you in any way, did they? Privately, I mean.'

She looked confused. 'They broke my nose-'

'Yes, I know. I don't mean that... I mean, sexually. They didn't touch you in any way or assault, molest-'

'Oh no,' she cut him off quickly, sensing the difficulty he was having addressing such a matter. 'Not at all, no. The worst they did was break my nose, that's all. They only tied me up because I kept kicking out.'

'Good.' He was now dragging the unconscious man to tie him up now, in the chair where Marianne had been incapacitated herself. 'I just wanted to weigh up what to do with him.'

She screwed her eyebrows up, in confusion. 'Pardon?'

'He broke your nose, Marianne, by standing on your face with his boots. That definitely warrants a push out of the window. If he'd harmed you any further, especially - in that way - well, I might have to call Mycroft to concoct a brutal demise for him after all.'

He caught her eye and they grinned at each other, neither quite knowing whether he was being serious.

X

Around ten or fifteen minutes passed, waiting for John to arrive back. The American was rousing and Sherlock was fetching a third towel for Marianne's bleeding nose by the time they heard the doctor come up the steps.

'Jesus Christ,' John gasped upon entrance. 'What the hell is going on?'

Sherlock didn't take his eyes away from the rousing agent. 'Marianne's been attacked by an American and I'm about to restore some balance to the universe.'

John rushed over to Marianne, who was midway through bleeding all over the third towel. He took her hands and helped her up.

'Take her downstairs and fix her up. He broke her nose by standing on her face with his boot,' Sherlock snarled, while John recoiled slightly

'Fucking hell.' The doctor shot an angry glance at the agent. 

Sherlock was already dialling Lestrade by this point. 'Hello? Detective Inspector? There's been a burglary at Baker Street. We're going to need your assistance. And perhaps an ambulance. Oh, no, don't worry. Everything's fine now. Nobody's seriously hurt, Marianne's a bit bruised up but nothing too lasting. It's the burglar, you see. He's got himself rather injured, quite seriously in fact. Broken nose, broken ribs, suspected punctured lung. What, how? Well, he managed to fall out of a window.' Sherlock put the phone down then, and glowered.

John, on his way to guiding Marianne out, leaned in to Sherlock. 'Sherlock, are you going to tell me what's going on?'

'I suspect so, now go. She needs painkillers and anti-septic.'

'What was that about him falling out of a window? Don't do anything stupid, Sherlock -'

'I'll do whatever I feel like doing to someone who thinks he can break into my home and attack my-' he faltered a little here and corrected himself, 'and attack the residents here, especially a young, unarmed civilian woman. Now, as I said, her nose is broken, she needs painkillers. Go.'

X

Marianne felt a little light-headed, from the kicking she'd taken and the subsequent loss of blood. The whole day's events really, had left her rather drained. She let John guide her out of the room, not paying attention to much else other than the grip of his hands and the steps beneath her, then the kitchen tiles, then the chair under her backside.

John made sure her vision was normal, and then examined her nose. He said she would need to go to the hospital this evening, and that once the police had arrived either he or Sherlock would accompany her.

'You must have been frightened,' he commented, dabbing at one of the cuts, this one on the bridge of her nose, with some anti-septic wipes. She winced. 'Sorry,' he said, 'but it needs to be done.'

'I know. And no, not frightened, not really, I don't think I was ever in any real danger. Sherlock made sure of that.'

'I'm sure he did,' John smirked, and handed her another towel for the blood. 'God, this is really bruised up, Mar.'

'It kills.'

'The painkillers should kick in shortly, and you'll be able to take some more at around midnight, if you're feeling up to staying awake that long.'

'For the sake of more painkillers, definitely,' she said, still wincing.

They heard an enormous clatter suddenly. John looked out of the window.

'What is it?' Marianne asked, scared to move her head in case her face hurt any further.

'Well, that must be the balance restored to the universe.'

'What happened?'

John explained, with something of a smile. 'Just as Sherlock anticipated, the agent seems to have fallen out of a window.'

X

Outside in the cold night, Sherlock watched as the ambulance took the CIA agent away, and the police cars slowly disappeared, one by one.

'She OK?' Lestrade nodded to Baker Street, where John was still tending to Marianne's injuries inside. 'You said on the phone she got hurt.'

'She'll be fine, John's sorting her out. As I said in your police report, just a broken nose.'

'I know, I mean, in herself, is she all right? She's not in shock or anything? Must have been quite stirring for her, alarming.'

Sherlock shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. 'I doubt it. It'd take more than a pitiful American's boot to shock Marianne Gleason, I know that much.'

Lestrade nodded. 'Well you know her better than I do. Keep an eye on her anyway. Women have a way of hiding what their feelings are, you know.'

'Not her.'

Lestrade thought about this. ' OK. Well, anyway, about his wounds, Sherlock. There were quite a lot that looked like, well... like he'd been beaten up too. How many times exactly did he fall out of the window?'

The small smile on Sherlock's lips grew bigger: 'Well, he stood on Marianne's face with steel-toe boots until her nose broke and she went through three towels with me alone trying to stem the blood. So, you ask me - how many times did that violent, despicable low-life fall out of a window? I don't know, Detective Inspector. I lost count.'

Lestrade considered these words for a moment, weighed them up, and then slowly nodded. 'I see.' Then: 'I guess there's nothing else for me to sort out here. I best be off.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Indeed.'

X

Inside Baker Street, John had taken Marianne to A&E and she had four stiches across her nose and cheek. She was in a much better state than she had been earlier. They were downstairs in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, where Sherlock had been waiting for them to return.

'Broken?' He asked, as they came through the back door.

Marianne said it was, but it would be healed shortly.

'As I suspected.'

'You'd do really well from a short break away from Baker Street, Mar.'

'Nonsense,' Sherlock snorted, and opened up the fridge. He took a small cake out and had a bite.

Marianne sat down at the table. She could smell something pleasant, and realised Sherlock was actually... cooking. That was odd.

'Sherlock, she's had a huge shock to the system. This is normal for me and you, we're used to this kind of stuff but Marianne's a twenty-six year old student. This is definitely not normal for her. Top-tier CIA agents broke her nose and tied her up for hours, for Christ's sake.' He shook his head, frustrated. 'How about your friend, Mary? Can you stay with her for a few days? It'd be really great for you to get out of here, see some new surroundings, avoid the triggers. Maybe even leave London for a bit. How about going back to Chester for a week or so? I'm sure you could get some time off work-'

'Leave London?' Sherlock grunted. 'She's fine.'

'She is not fine, Sherlock. This might be nothing to you, but look at her past.' John muttered this last part quietly, almost as if she wasn't in the room. 'I don't want this kind of trauma bringing up any unhappy memories for her. You should understand that, surely. She's shaken up.'

'Have you even looked at her? Spoke to her? She's not shaken up at all.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'She handled that far better than you or I potentially would have.'

' _She_ is also in the room and would like to be referred to as such,' Marianne said quietly, very tired.

'You underestimate her, John.'

'How so?'

'Marianne, with much respect, please would you put a hand down your bra and give me the contents?'

John's eyebrows raised, but Marianne smiled as she reached into her bra and handed Sherlock the camera-phone she'd kept hidden there from the Americans.

'The perks of having small tits,' she said, and Sherlock laughed. 

'Brilliant.'

'You kept that in there the whole time? Even while they were breaking your nose and you didn't relent, didn't give them it?'

Marianne nodded. 'I snuck it inside my bra when they thought I was using the bathroom.'

John was smiling, and Sherlock was grinning widely, clearly simultaneously amused and impressed. 'See, John, as I said - you underestimate her.'

'Hats off, Mar.' The doctor nodded. 'Good work.'

Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder, and she was sure she could feel him squeeze it. 'You should be ashamed of yourself, John.' He said with mock offence. 'Marianne leave London? I only just got her back after thirteen years. She's not going anywhere. Plus, who'd cook for us every evening? I'm rather enjoying those bizarre Vegetarian concoctions.'

John smiled with genuine warmth at this small, human exchange. Sherlock was very rarely like this. In fact, this was definitely the most obviously kind he'd been since she'd moved in, all those months ago. She did not want to think about that now, though, all she wanted right now, was to focus on the feel of his large hand on her small shoulder. She relaxed into that very fleeting touch, enjoying it now, while it was there to be enjoyed.


End file.
